THE  PRIDE  OF 
TELLFAIR 

BY 

ELMORE    ELLIOTT    PEAKE 

^iliiifillPe 

ft 

NEW      YORK      AND      LONDON 
HARPER      &     BROTHERS 
PUBLISHERS         *         MCMIII 

OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


Copyright,  1903,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  February,  1903. 


THE  PRIDE  OF  TELLFAIR 


21.11943 


THE  PRIDE  OF  TELLFAIR 


DAVENPORT'S  law-office,  over  Mainwaring's  store, 
looked  down  into  Main  Street.  The  pressed-brick 
store -fronts,  telephone  and  electric  -  light  wires,  and 
paving  were  fairly  suggestive  of  a  city.  But  Tell- 
fair's  true  village  character  was  betrayed  from  Daven- 
port's rear  windows,  which  gave  glimpses,  between 
clusters  of  elms  and  maples,  of  the  rolling  prairie 
of  northern  Illinois  only  a  short  half-mile  away. 

In  the  front  room  a  young  woman  fingered  a  type- 
writer. She  might  have  been  playing  a  symphony, 
though,  instead  of  grinding  out  stereotyped  dunning 
letters,  so  light  and  graceful  was  her  touch.  Oc- 
casionally she  paused  in  her  work,  lifted  a  scented 
bit  of  lace  to  her  lips,  and  gazed  out  of  the  window 
with  pensive  blue  eyes. 

A  woman  would  have  pronounced  her  overdressed 
for  the  time  and  place.  She  wore  a  pale-blue,  cling- 
ing stuff,  encircled  at  her  slender  waist  by  a  belt  of 
abnormal  width,  which  forced  the  swelling  front  of 
her  shirt-waist  to  a  height  not  at  all  contemplated 
by  nature.  Yet  the  result  was  eye-compelling,  which 
was  probably  what  she  desired. 

Her  pale  hair,  streaked  with  lemon,  lay  in  glossy 
coils  squarely  on  top  of  her  head;  and  hovering  on 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

this,  like  a  great  butterfly,  was  a  bow  of  baby-blue 
ribbon.  Her  feet,  amazing  small,  were  shod  with  dainty 
patent-leather  Oxfords.  The  whole  effect  was  that  of 
cleanliness  and  physical  purity.  She  exhaled,  in  one's 
fancy,  scented  soaps,  perfumes,  and  toilet-waters;  and 
elsewhere  than  at  a  typewriter  she  would  have  passed 
for  one  of  those  exquisite,  useless  feminine  creations 
who  seem  born  only  to  nap  and  bathe. 

A  door  marked  "Private"  led  to  a  rear  room.  This 
door  opened  presently,  and  a  young  man  in  a  checked 
suit  appeared.  His  red  hair  was  tumbled,  as  if  combed 
with  his  fingers,  and  his  brow  contracted  thought- 
fully. He  sauntered  across  to  a  window,  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  and  the  stump  of  a  cigar  in  his 
mouth.  Yet  his  lounging  carriage  could  not  hide 
his  deep  chest  and  square  shoulders,  and  his  sluggish- 
ness suggested  power  in  repose  rather  than  laziness. 

His  reddish  -  brown  eyes  flitted  up  and  down  the 
street — aimlessly,  it  seemed,  but  they  missed  nothing, 
and  the  brain  behind  summed  up  the  results.  There 
was  Ted  Magoffin,  a  farmer,  on  a  load  of  hay.  (Ted 
ought  to  be  able  to  make  a  payment  on  his  seeder, 
if  he  was  selling  his  hay.)  There  was  old  Dr.  Bur- 
ney  talking  to  Henry  Simmons.  (Mrs.  Simmons  was 
probably  worse  again.)  There  was  Si  Hoskins,  an- 
other farmer,  with  a  big  package  under  his  arm,  slip- 
ping into  a  saloon  and  trying  to  look  unconscious  of 
the  fact.  (The  package  was  enclosed  in  the  red  wrap- 
ping-paper of  the  Tellfair  Clothing  Company,  and 
looked  like  a  suit  of  clothes;  he  must  have  sold  his 
colt  that  morning.)  There  were  Alonzo  Weeks,  editor 
of  the  Citizen,  and  Major  Harrow,  in  close  conversa- 
tion with  the  promoter  of  a  proposed  inter-urban  elec- 
tric railway  for  Tellfair.  Davenport  did  not  take  the 
trouble  to  draw  a  conclusion  from  this.  He  knew  that 
he  would  promptly  receive  any  "inside"  information 

2 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

about  the  route  of  the  road  and  its  effect  on  real-estate 
values,  etc. 

"There's  your  father,  Bertha,"  he  observed,  briefly, 
without  turning. 

The  young  woman  arose  and  stepped  with  a  silk- 
en rustle  to  another  window.  On  the  opposite  side- 
walk, in  front  of  the  post-office,  was  a  man  in  an 
invalid's  chair.  He  partly  propelled  himself  by  means 
of  a  hand-rail  on  the  wheels,  but  a  tall,  queenly  blonde 
was  also  perfunctorily  pushing  from  behind — a  wom- 
an incredibly  young  to  be  the  mother  of  Davenport's 
stenographer.  Yet  such  she  was. 

"It's  the  first  time  he  has  been  out  this  spring," 
said  Bertha,  and  waved  her  handkerchief  as  her  father 
looked  up  and  smiled. 

Mrs.  Congreve  also  looked  up  and  gave  Davenport 
a  girlish  flutter  of  her  hand.  There  was  an  alertness 
in  the  poise  of  her  head,  a  suppleness  of  neck  and 
waist,  and  a  roving  fulness  of  eye  which  suggested 
that  she  would  overlook  very  few  of  her  men  acquaint- 
ances in  her  passage  down  the  street,  even  while  en- 
gaged in  steering  her  paralytic  husband's  chair. 

Davenport  thoughtfully  watched  the  strangely  as- 
sorted couple  out  of  sight,  and  then  turned  his  shrewd 
eyes  upon  his  stenographer,  now  seated  at  the  type- 
writer again.  He  might  have  been  comparing  mother 
and  daughter.  If  so,  it  was  to  the  advantage  of  the 
latter,  for  as  he  checked  off  her  threadlike  brows, 
faultless  nose,  sensitive  mouth,  and  baby  chin,  his 
face  softened. 

He  strolled  over  behind  her,  after  a  little,  to  see 
what  she  was  working  on.  A  curious  thing  then 
happened.  The  nimble  fingers  began  to  halt  and 
stumble;  a  faint  rose-color  overspread  her  cheek,  and 
she  dropped  her  long  silky  lashes  over  a  pair  of 
dilated  eyes.  It  was  just  as  if  a  powerful  magnet 

3 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

were  throwing  some  delicate  machine  out  of  adjust- 
ment. 

Davenport,  noting  this,  looked  at  her  wonderingly 
from  behind.  His  face  was  tender  but  half  disap- 
proving. He  showed  no  surprise,  and  he  might  have 
seen  the  same  thing  before.  Then  he  stepped  out  in 
front  of  her  again  and  sat  down. 

"The  Priestleys  are  coming  back  to  Tellfair,"  said 
he,  drawing  a  letter  from  his  pocket. 

Bertha  glanced  up  with  interest. 

"It  seems  strange  that  they  should  come  back  after 
so  many  years,"  said  she.  "They  never  had  any  asso- 
ciates here." 

"I  suppose  it's  no  stranger  for  them  to  come  a 
second  time  than  a  first,  so  far  as  that  goes,"  he  an- 
swered, preoccupiedly,  glancing  through  the  letter 
again.  "They  want  me  to  look  their  house  over 
and  report  what  repairs  are  needed.  I'm  afraid  it 
needs  more  than  it  will  get,  for  I  sniff  poverty  in  that 
letter." 

"I  sniff  white  rose,"  said  Bertha,  spreading  her 
thin  nostrils. 

He  held  the  tinted  sheet  to  his  nose  a  moment. 

"Poverty  and  white  rose  often  go  together.  But 
look  at  that  handwriting,"  he  added,  less  censorious- 
ly, handing  the  letter  over.  "  There  is  character  for 
you." 

She  glanced  the  sheet  over  with  subtle  feminine 
hostility  —  aroused,  perhaps,  by  Davenport's  compli- 
ment. 

"It's  signed  by  "  Josephine,"  said  she,  vaguely. 
"She  must  have  been  about  seventeen  when  they 
left  here.  That  was  six  years  ago."  Then,  after  a 
pause,  she  asked,  hesitatingly,  "Do  you  think  that 
little,  stubby  handwriting  shows  character,  Morris?" 

"The  strongest  kind,"  said  he,  rising  and  lighting 

4 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

a  fresh  cigar.  "Every  letter  sits  as  firmly  on  its 
bottom  as  a  washtub.  I'll  be  back  with  the  horse 
in  ten  minutes,"  he  went  on.  "You  keep  a  lookout 
for  me,  and  bring  down  the  notarial  seal  when  you 
come.  We  might  stop  at  the  Priestley  house  on  our 
way  to  the  country.  You  may  never  have  another 
chance  to  see  it." 

He  returned  to  the  other  room  for  the  big  brass 
key  to  the  Priestley  house.  In  the  half-dozen  years 
it  had  been  in  his  possession  he  had  used  it  only 
once  or  twice,  and  he  had  some  difficulty  in  finding 
it  now. 

After  he  had  gone,  Bertha  read  Miss  Priestley's 
letter  through  again.  The  short,  sturdy,  upright 
characters  certainly  expressed  power;  and  though 
u's  and  n's  and  r's  and  s's  were  all  nearly  alike,  the 
writing  swept  along  with  considerable  grace  as  well. 
Bertha  reproduced  a  few  of  the  words  in  her  own  tall, 
girlish  hand,  for  comparison.  (Davenport  was  al- 
ways talking  about  character.)  The  result  was  not 
flattering.  Her  letters,  alongside  Miss  Priestley's,  re- 
minded her  of  a  file  of  long-legged  spiders  weathering 
a  stiff  breeze,  and  she  tore  the  scrap  of  paper  up. 
Reading  character  from  handwriting  was  a  piece  of 
charlatanry,  anyhow,  like  palmistry,  she  reflected. 

The  house  at  which  Morris  Davenport  and  his 
stenographer  stopped  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  village. 
It  was  a  big,  brown,  flat-roofed  building,  not  so  far 
from  the  street,  but  borrowing  an  air  of  monastic 
aloofness  from  the  trees  and  shrubbery  which  half 
hid  it.  This  effect  was  also  heightened  by  the  ten- 
foot  iron  fence  which  cut  the  grounds  off  from  the 
outside  world.  The  carved  -  oak  front  door  might 
have  defied  a  battering  -  ram.  The  windows  were 
barred  with  heavy  shutters,  which  the  little  barefoot 
boys  who  peered  half  fearsomely  through  the  cagelike 

5 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

fence  on  summer  afternoons  could  not  remember  ever 
having  seen  open. 

The  front  of  the  house  and  one  side  were  bordered 
with  a  deep  porch,  which  each  summer  was  hidden 
behind  banks  of  climbing  -  rose,  wild  cucumber,  and 
honeysuckle.  In  these  the  catbirds  nested  undis- 
turbed, leaving  the  cool,  dark  recesses  of  the  porch 
to  the  wrens  and  phcebes.  The  house  occupied  a 
corner,  but  spacious  grounds  fell  away  to  the  rear 
and  one  side,  in  which  directions  neighborly  curiosity 
— quite  strong  in  Tellfair — was  balked  by  a  brick 
wall  which  the  tallest  man  could  not  hook  his  nose 
over  by  two  feet. 

In  the  front  yard  was  a  fountain,  but  the  water- 
nymphs  and  swans  had  parched  and  cracked  for 
many  summers,  and  the  weeds  in  the  basin  grew 
bolder  and  taller  every  year.  In  the  back  yard  stood 
a  cluster  of  fruit  trees,  but  each  season  the  apples 
and  pears  and  peaches  fell  and  rotted  in  the  deep  grass 
along  the  wall,  for  even  the  boys  had  an  unwholesome 
fear  of  the  place  and  seldom  trespassed.  It  was  cur- 
rently reported  among  them  that  a  strange  animal — 
no  one  had  ever  seen  more  than  its  green  eyes — had 
its  den  under  the  porch,  that  the  well  was  full  of 
snakes,  and  that  robbers  had  a  rendezvous  in  the  mow 
of  the  barn. 

Davenport  turned  the  key  in  the  reluctant  lock, 
and  the  pair  stepped  into  the  great  hall.  It  was  cold 
and  damp,  though  warm  outside;  their  feet  started 
doleful  echoes;  a  fine  gray  dust  lay  everywhere,  and 
Bertha  gingerly  gathered  her  skirts  about  her.  Several 
heavy  pieces  of  furniture,  all  antique,  still  occupied 
the  rooms,  and  a  few  pictures  still  hung  upon  the 
walls  —  not  cheap,  abandoned  daubs,  but  great  can- 
vases in  massive  frames  which  even  a  tyro  would 
have  recognized  as  costly.  Davenport,  though  the 

6 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

family's  legal  agent,  knew  no  more  than  anybody 
else  in  Tellfair  why  these  had  been  left  behind.  The 
Priestleys  had  never  wasted  breath  in  useless  ex- 
planations, at  least  to  the  villagers.  One  of  these 
pictures,  its  cord  eaten  through  probably  by  moths, 
had  fallen  to  the  floor. 

"If  any  one  had  heard  that  picture  fall,  especially 
after  dark,"  said  Davenport,  leaning  it  against  the 
wall,  "Tellfair  would  have  had  a  haunted  house." 

Bertha  shivered,  only  partly  from  the  cold.  The 
still,  damp,  abandoned  place,  together  with  a  flood  of 
childish  recollections  of  the  mysterious  family,  affected 
her  strongly. 

"How  many  of  them  died  of  yellow -fever  in  New 
Orleans,  Morris?"  she  asked,  in  almost  a  whisper. 

"I  don't  know — Mr.  Priestley  certainly,  and  I  think 
Mrs.  Priestley,  and  maybe  one  or  two  of  the  girls.  They 
have  never  written  anything  about  it  to  me.  All  I 
know  is  from  what  their  lawyer  down  there  dropped  in 
one  of  his  letters  about  the  property  here.  They  are 
a  strangely  reticent  family.  But  that, is  because  we 
don't  know  them,  perhaps,"  he  added. 

A  nondescript  instrument,  on  the  order  of  a  harpsi- 
chord, stood  in  a  corner.  Its  age  was  sufficiently 
attested  by  its  worn  yellow  keys  and  quaint  character 
generally;  but  on  a.  silver  plate  above  the  keyboard 
were  the  words,  "  Emile  Drouet,  Paris,  1765." 

"That's  an  heirloom  on  the  French  side  of  the  house 
—the  mother's  side,"  said  Davenport,  pausing  before 
the  instrument.  "I  happen  to  know  that,  because  I 
had  it  insured  about  five  years  ago.  The  policy  expired 
two  years  ago.  I  notified  them,  but  never  got  any  an- 
swer." 

He  bent  over  the  aged  keyboard  and  struck  a  double 
chord.  The  effect  was  startling.  The  instrument 
was  horribly  out  of  tune;  the  jangling  notes  echoed 

7 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

through  the  great  high-ceiled  rooms,  ran  up  the  broad, 
uncarpeted  staircase  like  scurrying  rats,  and  died  away 
with  ghostly  sounds  in  the  chambers  above  —  cham- 
bers to  which  no  money  could  have  hired  Bertha  to 
ascend  alone. 

"Don't!  Oh,  don't,  Morris!"  she  exclaimed,  clutch- 
ing his  arm.  "It  seems  almost  sacrilegious,  with  so 
many  of  them  dead." 

In  the  next  room — they  were  all  connected  by  arch- 
ways— Davenport  paused  and  gazed  curiously  at  what 
looked  like  a  handful  of  colored  wool  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Bertha,  fearfully,  from  behind. 

"Come  here!"  he  exclaimed.  "A  rug  evidently 
occupied  this  floor  once — you  can  see  how  far  it  ex- 
tended by  a  slight  discoloration  in  the  boards — and 
that  wad  of  stuff  there  in  the  centre  is  all  that  the 
moths  have  left." 

Bertha  shrank  back  in  dismay  and  lifted  her  skirts 
an  inch  higher. 

"  Morris,  I  am  going  to  get  out  of  this.  I  can't  stand 
it.  The  place  is  ghostly,  and  I'll  itch  for  a  week." 

"There  are  no  moths  here  now;  the  winter  fixed 
them,"  he  answered,  encouragingly,  and  led  the  way 
to  the  rear  of  the  house.  One  of  the  doors  which  he 
opened  at  random  showed  a  dark  cellarway. 

"I  don't  know  whether  we  need  go  down  there  or 
not,"  said  he,  slyly. 

"We!"  cried  Bertha,  recoiling.  "All  the  gold  in 
the  world  wouldn't  tempt  me  down  into  that  horrible 
hole.  And  I  don't  want  you  to  go,  either,"  she  added, 
with  an  indefinable  change  in  her  voice  and  touching 
his  arm.  "There  might  be  ravenous  rats  or  cats 
down  there  that  would  fly  at  your  throat.  I've  heard 
of  people  being  killed  that  way,  and  a  rat's  bite  is 
poisonous." 

8 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Then  I  won't  go,"  said  he,  gravely,  and  closed  the 
door. 

They  examined  the  up-stairs,  and  Davenport  even 
climbed  into  the  attic,  against  Bertha's  protest,  to 
look  for  holes  in  the  roof.  She  awaited  uncomfortably 
below. 

"That  house  is  a  finer  monument  to  old  man  Shackle- 
ford,"  said  Davenport,  as  they  reached  the  pure,  sweet 
air  outside  once  more,  "than  the  granite  shaft  his  wife 
set  up  in  the  cemetery.  He  built  it  to  stay,  and  it's 
staying.  There  isn't  a  hole  in  the  roof,  nor  a  floor  or 
wall  out  of  plumb,  and  outside  it  hasn't  changed  in 
'appearance  in  six  years." 

Davenport  had  undertaken  to  educate  Bertha  along 
certain  lines.  He  allowed  her  to  draw  simple  legal 
instruments,  to  make  formal  appearances  for  him  be- 
fore justices  of  the  peace,  and  to  do  other  things  which 
exercised  her  self-reliance.  He  did  this  merely  for 
amusement,  but  it  is  true  the  thought  had  crossed 
his  mind  that  what  he  sowed  in  the  maid  he  might 
reap  in  the  woman.  He  was  thirty  years  old  and 
prosperous,  and  his  mind  often  turned  wifeward.  There 
was  no  other  woman  in  Tellfair  that  he  cared  for, 
and  he  was  not  sure  that  he  cared  for  Bertha. 

He  was  also  teaching  her  how  to  drive,  and  when 
they  were  again  seated  in  the  light  runabout  he  handed 
her  the  lines,  warning  her  that  the  colt  had  on  his 
war  -  paint.  It  was  a  pleasing  sight  to  watch  her 
control  the  skittish  young  animal,  her  body  bent 
forward,  feet  braced,  hands  extended,  eyes  darkling 
with  excitement,  and  cheeks  shot  with  crimson  tongues. 
Her  willingness  to  learn  and  anxiety  to  please  were 
interesting,  too.  Yet  she  lacked  a  certain  fire  which 
Davenport  would  have  liked  to  see. 

As  they  passed  some  hogs,  the  colt  shied  and  broke 
into  a  pitching  gallop.  A  few  weeks  before  such  a 

9 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

thing  would  have  filled  Bertha  with  terror;  but  she 
was  learning,  and,  without  looking  at  her  teacher,  she 
set  her  teeth  on  her  scarlet  underlip  and  pulled  bravely. 

"Whoa,  boy!  Whoa,  boy!"  she  called  out,  copying 
Davenport,  except  for  the  tremor  in  her  voice. 

"Not  so  loud!"  cautioned  Davenport,  softly.  "He 
thinks  you  are  scared,  too." 

She  was  scared,  but  she  lowered  her  voice.  The 
colt,  though,  divining  the  true  state  of  affairs  at  the 
other  end  of  the  lines,  now  began  to  run  in  good  earnest. 
Bertha's  nerve  failed,  and,  giving  up,  she  turned  ap- 
pealingly  to  Davenport.  He  relieved  her  of  the  reins, 
with  a  slight  appearance  of  disapproval.  A  com- 
manding word  or  two  and  a  masterful  but  not  power- 
ful tension  on  the  bit  quickly  brought  the  frightened 
colt  to  his  senses.  It  was  done  so  easily,  so  simply, 
that  Bertha  glanced  at  Davenport  in  chagrin.  For 
a  moment  there  was  silence. 

"You  think  I  am  awfully  weak,  don't  you?"  said 
she,  ruefully. 

"For  being  unable  to  hold  this  brute?"  he  asked, 
derisively. 

"Not  that  especially.     For  other  things,  too." 

"Isn't  that  rather  indefinite?" 

"You  know  what  I  mean.  You  are  always  talking 
about  character,  and  telling  me  that  every  girl  ought 
to  know  how  to  cook  and  sew,  and  ought  to  improve 
her  mind  by  reading,  and  cultivate  independence,  and 
all  that.  I  know  well  enough  you  are  preaching  at 
me." 

Davenport  glanced  at  her  clouded  face  and  laughed. 
He  had  been  preaching,  but  very  slyly,  he  thought ;  and 
he  was  amused  that  she  should  have  found  him  out. 

"I  certainly  have  talked  these  things  to  you,"  he 
admitted,  "but  I  did  not  mean  to  imply  that  you 
were  deficient  in  them  —  that  is,  not  especially  so. 

10 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

I  was  merely  giving  you  my  idea  of  what  a  woman 
ought  to  be.  Nobody  is  perfect,  and  perhaps  I  meant 
for  you  to  take  a  hint  or  two.  But  that  only  shows 
that  I  am  interested  in  you,  that  I  think  you  worth 
helping — not  that  I  believe  you  weak." 

She  glanced  at  him  shyly.  He  had  never  received 
just  such  a  look  from  her  before,  and  it  made  him 
thoughtful  during  the  rest  of  the  ride.  In  a  sense,  he 
felt  unworthy  of  it.  It  was  just  such  a  look,  indeed, 
as  he  had  hoped  some  day  to  receive  from  her;  but, 
now  that  it  had  come,  it  somehow  seemed  premature. 
He  did  not  know  just  what  to  do  with  it. 


II 

BERTHA  slipped  into  her  father's  library  that 
evening.  She  would  have  preferred,  for  certain 
reasons,  to  be  alone;  but  catching  Harvey  Congreve 
out  of  his  library  was  like  catching  a  woodchuck 
out  of  its  hole,  and  he  now  sat  by  his  green-shaded 
lamp,  reading.  His  wheeled  chair  stood  near,  to 
which  he  could  transfer  himself,  if  necessary,  without 
help. 

Neither  Harvey's  wife  nor  daughter  read  much, 
or  placed  any  proper  value  upon  his  fine  library,  or 
upon  the  sacrifices  he  had  made  to  get  it.  Mrs.  Con- 
greve was  sure,  though,  that  a  great  many  dollars 
had  gone  for  books,  before  Harvey's  paralysis — which 
put  an  end  to  book-buying  for  him — that  might  better 
have  gone  for  clothes.  Possibly  she  was  right. 

As  Bertha  wandered  vaguely  from  one  case  to 
another,  her  father,  apparently  absorbed  in  his  book, 
watched  her  curiously.  To  see  her  skimming  his  ti- 
tles gave  him  a  pleasure  akin,  perhaps,  to  that  which 
an  old  gardener  feels  when  a  humming-bird  invades 
his  fragrant  kingdom  and  sips  nectar  from  his  flowers. 

"What  are  you  looking  for,  pet?"  he  asked,  finally. 

"Oh,  just  something  to  read,"  she  answered,  with 
forced  carelessness. 

"The  fiction  is  over  here,  if  you  want  that." 

"I  don't  want  a  story.  I  want  something,  papa," 
she  added, -half-confidingly,  "to  improve  my  mind.  I 
don't  think  I  have  been  reading  enough." 

12 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Possibly  not,"  said  he,  hiding  a  smile.  His  faith 
in  her  mental  improvement  may  not  have  been  strong, 
with  the  warm  summer  nights  just  coming  on.  "  There 
are  biography,  history,  travel,  philosophy,  a  dash  of 
theology,  science — anything  you  want.  Have  you  any 
preference?" 

She  glanced  at  him  to  see  that  he  was  not  making 
fun. 

"Have  you  a  life  of  Lincoln?"  she  asked,  after  a 
moment.  Davenport  had  mentioned  such  a  book 
once. 

,  Congreve  had  ten  or  twelve  lives  of  Lincoln,  but, 
without  mentioning  this  fact,  he  directed  her  to  a 
popular  work  in  two  small  volumes  of  plain,  readable 
type.  Bertha  took  the  books  out  into  the  sitting- 
room  and  cautiously  opened  one  of  them. 

She  was  a  graduate  of  the  Tellfair  High  School, 
with  a  good  record  in  history.  It  had  been  no  trouble 
for  her,  before  an  examination,  to  stuff  her  head  as 
full  of  dates  and  battles  and  kings  as  a  sunflower  is  of 
seed;  and  there  had  been  a  time  when  she  could  name 
the  Presidents  of  the  United  States,  forward  or  back- 
ward, as  rapidly  as  a  good  Lutheran  repeats  his  cate- 
chism the  day  before  confirmation. 

But  her  historical  facts,  of  course,  meant  nothing 
—had  no  continuity  or  organization.  Now  and  then, 
in  her  scrappy  reading,  she  came  across  a  name  which 
was  vaguely  familiar — the  Missouri  Compromise,  Cal- 
houn,  Henry  Clay,  Nullification,  Fugitive  Slave  Law. 
But  in  the  fog  of  history  they  had  no  proper  pro- 
portions or  perspective,  and  touched  shoulders  with 
Patrick  Henry,  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  Battle  of  Lexing- 
ton, General  Braddock,  and — Paul  Revere's  ride. 

It  is  hardly  an  exaggeration,  therefore,  to  say  that  an 
Australian  Bushman,  dropped  into  Broadway  from  the 
clouds,  could  hardly  form  hazier  notions  of  the  teeming 

13 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

life  around  him  than  Bertha  held  of  the  great  moral 
and  political  movements  preceding  the  Civil  War,  into 
which  her  biography  now  plunged  her  after  a  brief  sur- 
vey of  Lincoln's  rail-splitting  days.  But  the  girl  had  a 
streak  of  perseverance  in  her  make-up,  and  she  steadily 
turned  page  after  page. 

Her  mother  was  cutting  out  a  shirt  -  waist  in  the 
same  room,  moving  about  the  table  with  the  swift, 
springy  step  of  a  girl,  whistling  softly  to  herself,  as 
happy  and  absorbed  as  a  child  with  its  first  doll's 
dress.  Time  was  when  she  hired  her  shirt  -  waists 
made;  but  Volley  was  not  addicted  to  crying  over 
spilled  milk,  and  no  thoughts  of  her  prosperous  past, 
before  Harvey's  paralysis,  marred  her  serenity  now. 

"What  does  'verisimilitude'  mean,  mamma?"  asked 
Bertha,  presently. 

Volley  broke  off  her  whistle  and  critically  eyed  her 
pattern  a  moment  before  answering. 

"You've  got  me,  Bert.  Ask  Harvey.  Do  you  re- 
member whether  those  velvet  straps  on  Mrs.  Paddock's 
waist  were  straight  or  tapering?" 

"Straight,  I  think,"  answered  Bertha,  closing  her 
book  and  yielding  for  a  moment  to  the  seduction  of 
dress-making. 

"Mine  are  going  to  taper,"  said  Volley,  complacently. 
"Look!"  Straightening  herself  and  throwing  out  her 
splendid  bosom,  she  held  a  strip  of  velvet  against  her 
front  from  waist  to  throat.  "How's  that?" 

Bertha  nodded  her  approval — she  would  have  been 
more  enthusiastic,  but  she  was  improving  her  mind — 
and  then  returned  to  her  book.  Volley,  glad  that  Mrs. 
Paddock's  straps  were  only  straight,  bent  her  tawny 
head  over  her  work  again. 

Bertha,  giving  way  to  a  rooted  habit,  began  to 
dream  over  her  book  after  a  little.  This  self -im- 
provement was  not  exactly  a  pleasing  task;  nor  was 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

this  life  of  Lincoln  the  charming  book  Davenport's  talk 
had  made  it  out  to  be.  Homely  men  had  never  in- 
terested her,  anyhow.  But  the  fault  was  with  herself, 
she  reflected  severely,  and  she  resolutely  took  another 
plunge  into  the  political  whirlpool  of  the  later  fifties. 
It  was  fifteen  minutes  before  she  came  to  the  top 
again  for  breath. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  Lincoln,  mamma?"  she  then  asked. 

Mrs.  Congreve  gave  a  merry  little  laugh — she  was 
in  prime  spirits — and  squinted  along  a  chalk-line.  The 
crouching  posture  brought  out  all  her  tigerish  grace. 

"A  person  might  think  I  was  Mother  Eve  from  your 
talk,  Bert,"  said  she,  sarcastically.  "Why  don't  you 
ask  me  if  I  ever  saw  Julius  Caesar?" 

Bertha  made  a  mental  calculation — she  was  quick 
at  figures,  if  nothing  else. 

"You  are  thirty-nine,  and  you  were  five  years  old 
when  Lincoln  was  assassinated,"  she  answered,  soberly. 

Volley  may  or  may  not  have  known,  before  this,  in 
which  half  of  the  century  Lincoln  flourished;  she  did 
not  say. 

"At  the  age  of  five,"  she  answered,  coolly,  instead, 
"I  was  a  tow-headed  tot  in  a  checked  frock,  on  the 
farm;  and  the  greatest  celebrity  that  I  had  ever  seen 
was  a  Holstein  bull  of  ours  that  took  first  premium 
at  the  county  fair." 

A  prize  Holstein  bull  was  not  a  celebrity  which 
Bertha  would  have  carried  in  her  memory  for  a  third 
of  a  century;  or,  if  she  had,  she  certainly  would  not 
have  mentioned  the  fact — least  of  all  now,  in  the  first 
flush  of  self -improvement.  She  had  an  idea  that 
refined  people  never  spoke  of  bulls  and  such  animals. 
She  believed  her  mother  refined,  of  course,  but  knew 
that  she  was  decidedly  unconventional. 

"Did  you  ever  see  Ford's  Theatre,  in  Washington, 
when  you  were  a  government  clerk  there?"  she  asked. 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Many  a  time — a  squatty  little  building  that  looked 
like  a  meeting-house.  What  book  is  that  you're  read- 
ing, anyhow?"  asked  Volley,  her  curiosity  aroused. 

"The  life  of  Lincoln,"  answered  Bertha,  staidly. 

"What's  struck  you?"  asked  Volley,  frolicsomely. 

Bertha  resented  the  manner;  perhaps  she  was  un- 
duly sensitive  on  the  subject. 

"I  don't  know  that  anything  has  struck  me,"  she 
answered,  stiffly. 

But  Volley's  was  an  irrepressible  nature — a  frisky, 
coltish,  teasing  nature  at  times;  and  now  her  full,  red 
lips  drooped  mockingly  as  she  paused  in  her  work  to 
look  at  her  daughter  for  the  first  time. 

"Morris  been  preaching?"  she  asked,  tauntingly. 

Bertha  flushed,  but  answered,  severely,  "If  I  were 
you,  mamma,  I  would  not  speak  that  way  about  any 
one  who  had  been  as  kind  to  us  as  Morris  Davenport 
has." 

"My  innocent  youngling!"  exclaimed  Volley,  with 
a  laugh.  "I  think  as  much  of  Morris  Davenport  as 
ever  you  dared,  and  I'd  call  him  a  preacher  to  his 
face.  He  preaches  to  everybody,  and  knows  it.  He 
has  a  little  sermon  for  me  every  time  I  meet  him.  I 
sometimes  feel  as  though  I  ought  to  pay  him  quarter- 
age, and  tack  D.D.  on  to  his  LL.D." 

Bertha,  mollified,  smiled.  It  was  quite  true  about 
Davenport's  preaching,  she  reflected. 


M 


Ill 

RS.  CONGREVE  was  destined  to  sit  under  one 
of  Davenport's  sermons  the  next  day.  When 
he  came  down  to  the  office  in  the  morning  from  the 
Ba.sley  House,  where  he  kept  bachelor  quarters,  he 
found  one  of  his  farm  tenants  awaiting  him.  The 
man  had  evidently  been  dabbling  in  strong  waters,  and 
Davenport,  considering  the  early  hour  and  the  farm- 
er's usual  sobriety,  suspected  trouble.  Sure  enough, 
between  maudlin  whimpers  the  story  came  out,  of  a 
burned  barn  and  out-buildings  the  night  before,  fol- 
lowed by  tearful  regrets,  assurances  of  the  most  scru- 
pulous care,  and  protests  of  undying  loyalty  to  his 
landlord. 

"Did  you  lose  any  stock?"  asked  Davenport,  cutting 
off  the  last. 

"Only  one  cow — thank  God  for  that!"  answered  the 
farmer,  fervently. 

"Any  machinery?" 

"Not  a  machinery — thank  God  for  that!" 

"Don't  thank  God  so  much,"  said  Davenport,  dry- 
ly. "He'd  probably  prefer  your  thanks  less  strongly 
flavored  with  popskull  whiskey.  I  haven't  time  to  go 
out  to  the  farm  this  morning,  but  I'll  notify  the  in- 
surance agent  and  have  the  loss  adjusted  as  soon  as 
possible.  I'll  go  out  this  afternoon  and  look  the  ruins 
over.  We'll  rebuild  just  as  soon  as  the  insurance 
people  get  through.  Meanwhile,  you  had  better  go 
home  and  go  to  bed.  I  sha'n't  need  you." 

17 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

After  dinner  he  stepped  over  to  Hay  ford's  livery- 
stable  for  his  horse.  He  also  wanted  to  see  Hayford 
himself.  The  latter  held  a  mortgage  on  the  Priestley 
homestead,  the  last  year's  interest  on  which  had  not 
been  paid.  With  the  return  of  the  family  this  ques- 
tion of  mortgage  and  interest  would  doubtless  come  up, 
and  the  lawyer  wanted  to  know  how  Hayford  felt. 

He  glanced  through  a  sash-door  into  the  boxlike 
enclosure  labelled  "Office."  The  walls  were  hung  with 
harnesses  and  saddles,  and  decorated  with  lithographs 
and  pictures  from  pink  sporting  -  papers,  representing 
full-length  beauties,  both  equine  and  feminine,  and 
pugilistic  "stars."  Mr.  Hayford  was  not  there,  but  the 
stable-boy — of  thirty-five  or  so — thought  he  might  be 
found  at  Congreve's,  as  he  had  just  gone  out  to  try  his 
new  sorrel  mare. 

Volley  Congreve  was  passionately  fond  of  horses, 
and  Bradley  Hayford,  being  at  the  same  time  a  horse- 
man and  a  cousin  of  hers,  gave  her  an  opportunity 
to  indulge  this  passion  in  a  way.  A  more  faithful 
cousin  than  Bradley,  in  fact,  would  have  been  hard 
to  find,  although  he  was  not  especially  attentive  to 
his  aged  parents;  and  the  stable-boy  may  have  had 
some  of  this  in  mind  when  he  grinned. 

Davenport  ignored  the  grin  and  critically  eyed  the 
beautiful  animal  which  the  man  was  rapidly  buckling 
into  the  thills.  He  was  a  horse  -  fancier  himself,  and 
usually  kept  half  a  dozen  blooded  specimens  in  Hay- 
ford's  stable.  Two  or  three  minutes  later  he  drew 
up  before  a  pleasant  cottage  just  beyond  the  railroad 
tracks,  in  the  older  part  of  the  village.  Hayford's 
vehicle  was  not  in  sight,  so  he  had  probably  come  and 
gone.  To  make  sure,  though,  Davenport  tied  his  horse 
and  rang  the  bell. 

"Come  in,  Morris!" 

The  sepulchral  sound  apparently  came  from  the 

18 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

earth,  and  might  have  startled  one  who  had  not  previ- 
ously noted  the  speaking-tube  above  the  bell-handle. 
It  was  Harvey  Congreve's  voice,  and  Davenport  en- 
tered and  made  his  way  to  the  study  with  a  readi- 
ness which  showed  perfect  familiarity  with  the  house. 
The  study  was  a  large,  well-lighted  room,  filled  with 
books  and  plants.  The  invalid  had  wheeled  his  chair 
into  an  embowered  bay-window,  and  was  just  filling 
his  pipe.  The  simple  act  well  illustrated  his  weak  con- 
dition; his  thin  hands  would  scarcely  do  his  bidding, 
and  spilled  a  good  deal  of  the  tobacco  in  his  lap.  He 
smiled  brightly  at  Davenport,  however,  and  extended 
his  hand  as  far  as  he  could.  His  face  wore  the  patient, 
chastened  air  which  one  associates  more  readily  with 
a  woman  than  with  a  man. 

"How  did  you  know  who  it  was?"  asked  Davenport, 
for  Harvey's  windows  did  not  command  a  view  of 
the  street. 

"By  your  wheels.  You  always  stop  a  horse  as 
though  you  had  thrown  him  against  a  stone  wall. 
Hayford  declares  you  rack  a  horse  in  a  month." 

"That's  all  in  Hayford's  eye.  I  train  my  horses  to 
make  a  quick  stop,  and  they  do  it  just  as  easily  as  if 
they  took  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  it.  Has  he  been  here? 
I  want  to  see  him." 

"He  left  here  not  five  minutes  ago — he  and  Volley. 
He  took  her  out  to  her  mother's.  She  hasn't  been  out 
there  for  some  weeks." 

The  last  had  a  tinge  of  extenuation  or  apology,  and 
strengthened  Davenport's  belief  that  the  invalid  was 
not  so  blind  to  his  wife's  intimacy  with  her  cousin  as 
many  people  imagined.  He  answered  carelessly,  though : 

"She  couldn't  have  chosen  a  better  day.  The  rain 
has  laid  the  dust  and  hardened  the  roads.  I'm  going 
out  towards  Corning  myself.  The  barn  on  my  farm  out 
there  burned  down  last  night." 

19 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

Congreve  expressed  his  regret ;  they  discussed  the  loss 
a  moment,  and  then  Davenport,  who  had  not  sat  down, 
turned  to  go. 

"Anything  I  can  do  for  you,  Harvey?" 

"Well,  yes.  You  might  pump  me  a  pail  of  fresh 
water,  Morris,  if  you  will,  and  bring  me  in  some  matches. 
She  keeps  them  above  the  sink." 

"I  know  where  she  keeps  them." 

Davenport,  like  most  men,  doubtless,  preferred  com- 
fort to  tidiness;  and  his  office,  before  Bertha  came,  and 
his  rooms  at  the  Basley  House  yet,  were  chronically 
in  a  state  which  would  have  maddened  a  model  house- 
keeper. But  even  his  hardened  eye  was  arrested  by 
the  scene  of  disorder  which  Volley's  sitting-room  pre- 
sented as  he  passed  through. 

The  floor  was  strewn  with  fashion-plates  and  scraps 
of  dress -goods.  On  the  table  lay  a  hat  and  a  pair 
of  gloves.  The  beautiful  Turkish  cloth  under  them 
— a  relic  of  the  days  when  Harvey  Congreve  was 
a  prosperous  lawyer,  with  no  thought  of  the  horrid 
spectre  which  should  come  in  the  night  and  lay  its 
withering  hand  upon  him — was  disfigured  with  a  great 
circular  stain  of  kerosene.  A  pair  of  woman's  shoes 
huddled  in  a  corner,  just  where  the  dainty  feet  had 
hurriedly  kicked  them  off.  Over  a  chair  hung  a  pair 
of  long,  fiery  -  red  stockings,  undarned.  In  the  parlor, 
where  he  also  glanced,  the  afternoon  sun  was  blazing 
through  the  window  upon  the  polished  surface  of  the 
piano.  He  stepped  in  and  drew  the  curtain,  and  then 
went  on  through  to  the  kitchen,  to  find  the  dinner 
dishes  standing  in  the  sink,  unwashed. 

"Harvey  has  the  patience  of  a  saint!"  thought  Dav- 
enport, hotly. 

It  was  difficult  to  nurse  even  a  just  wrath  against 
Volley  for  any  length  of  time,  she  was  such  an  irre- 
sponsible creature;  but  Davenport  suspected  that  this 

20 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

neglect  of  home  and  husband  had  its  roots  in  some- 
thing graver  than  irresponsibility.  The  trouble,  he 
feared,  was  a  more  than  cousinly  feeling  of  Volley's 
for  Bradley  Hayford. 

He  smiled  pityingly  at  a  crude,  home-made  frame- 
work of  levers  attached  to  the  well  -  pump.  It  was  a 
contrivance  by  means  of  which  Harvey  could  get  a 
fresh  drink,  on  a  pinch,  in  the  absence  of  wife  and 
daughter.  It  spoke  eloquently  of  the  invalid's  lonely 
hours.  So,  also,  did  the  speaking-tube  at  the  front 
door. 

Davenport's  horse  reeled  off  the  eight  miles  to 
Corning  township  in  just  fifty  minutes.  He  found 
a  number  of  neighboring  farmers  strolling  idly  about 
the  smoking  foundations  of  the  barn,  with  their  hands 
in  their  pockets,  speculating  on  the  origin  of  the  fire, 
and  spitting  tobacco-juice  on  the  hot  stones.  Wilkin- 
son, the  tenant,  had  not  gone  to  bed,  as  Davenport 
had  suggested,  but  had  evidently  continued  to  suck 
comfort  from  his  bottle.  By  this  time  he  had  reached 
a  chronic  state  of  tearfulness,  and,  blubbering  and 
shaking  his  head  despairingly,  he  poured  a  tale  of  woe 
about  his  lost  cow  into  the  ears  of  any  one  who  would 
listen.  The  by  -  standers  were  either  amused  or  dis- 
gusted, according  to  temperament;  but  when  Daven- 
port arrived  they  all  dropped  back  a  little,  as  people 
make  way  for  the  chief  mourner  at  a  funeral,  and 
respectfully  waited  for  him  to  speak. 

"There's  only  one  thing  I  really  regret,"  said  he, 
cheerfully,  as  he  glanced  over  the  blackened  area — 
"for  the  buildings  were  fully  insured,  and  I  wanted 
to  rebuild,  anyhow  —  that's  the  burning  of  Wilkin- 
son's cow." 

"Oh,  that  poor,  poor  cow,  Morris  Davenport!" 
burst  out  Wilkinson,  stimulated  by  his  landlord's 

21 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

unexpected  sympathy,  and  trying  to  fix  his  glassy 
eyes  on  Morris.  "There's  my  wife  a-settin'  in  that 
kitchen — that  same  summer  kitchen  right  there  before 
your  eyes,  Morris  Davenport,  that  she  cooked  our  din- 
ner in  yesterday — there  she's  a-settin'  and  a-cryin' 
her  eyes  out  over  that  cow.  That  cow  was  the  besh 
friend  she  ever  had,  Morris — Morris  Davenport — the 
besh  friend  she  ever  had." 

"I  guess  that's  so,  both  before  and  after  marriage," 
observed  a  sarcastic  farmer. 

"And  now  she's  burned — burned  to  ashes,"  continued 
Wilkinson,  tragically.  "  Morris  Davenport,  that  cow — 

"Don't  make  a  damned  fool  of  yourself,  Wilkinson," 
said  a  rough  voice.  "Go  to  bed  and  sober  up." 

"Morris  Davenport,  shall  I  go  to  bed  and  sober  up? 
You  know  besh  whether  I  ought  to  go  to  bed  or  not 
and  sober  up.  You're  my  landlord,  and  the  besh 
landlord  any  man  ever  had,  if  I  do  say  it  to  your  face. 
If  you  think  I  ought  to  go  to  bed  and  sober  up,  land- 
lord—" 

"By  all  means,"  said  Davenport.  "I  told  you  that 
six  hours  ago.  Take  him  in,  somebody." 

The  weeping  man  was  led  off,  none  too  gently,  by 
one  of  his  neighbors. 


IV 


AiTER  taking  some  measurements,  Davenport  start- 
ed home.     He  drove  back  at  a  more  leisurely  pace. 
His  acquaintance  among  the  farmers  was  something  re- 
-markable.     He  waved  his  hand  at  them  in  barnyard  and 
field;  he  touched  his  hat  to  their  wives  and  daughters. 
Passing  a  district  school  -  house  during  recess,  he  was 
saluted  with  a  chorus  of  shouts  from  the  children  and 
a  nod  and  smile  from  the  teacher. 

He  seemed  to  know  every  man  he  met  on  the  road, 
and  generally  addressed  him  by  his  Christian  name. 
Every  other  man  he  either  stopped  or  was  stopped  by. 
Every  ailing  horse  or  cow  in  the  country-side,  as  well 
as  every  ailing  wife  or  child,  was  apparently  the  object 
of  his  solicitude.  Had  a  man  a  prize  colt  or  calf,  hog 
or  ram,  a  new  drill  or  seeder,  a  new  wife  or  a  new  baby; 
had  he  recently  tried  a  patent  fertilizer,  or  sold  a 
tract  of  land,  or  disposed  of  his  hay,  or  bought  a  horse, 
Davenport  knew  of  it. 

Nor  did  he  discuss  these  things  in  the  perfunctory 
manner  of  a  man  currying  favor  with  possible  clients. 
Brought  up  on  a  farm  himself,  his  knowledge  of  rural 
affairs  was  accurate  and  solid;  his  advice  was  sought 
and  respected.  He  had,  moreover,  the  priceless  gift 
of  sympathy.  He  not  only  appeared  interested  in 
these  people's  affairs  —  he  was  interested.  Add  to  this 
his  professional  knowledge  and  the  advantages  of  six 
years  at  the  University  of  Illinois,  and  one  may  under- 
stand why  the  farmers  for  ten  miles  around  Tellfair 

23 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

regarded  Davenport's  office  as  headquarters  when  they 
came  to  town,  where  they  could  leave  their  wives  and 
babies,  if  need  be,  while  they  sold  their  hogs — or  got  a 
drink.  It  also  explains  how  Davenport  usually  knew, 
weeks  or  months  before  anybody  else,  when  a  farm 
would  be  thrown  upon  the  market,  or  where  the  likeliest 
colts  were  to  be  had  cheap.  That  he  made  good  use 
of  this  favored  information  his  prosperity  attested. 

Two  miles  south  he  turned  in  at  his  father's  farm. 
The  automatic  gate,  gravelled  driveway,  big,  freshly 
painted  house,  flower-beds,  and  the  spacious  Venetian- 
red  barns  and  out-buildings,  all  indicated  an  unusual 
prosperity  for  even  that  prosperous  section  of  country. 
Roundabout  lay  five  hundred  acres  of  rich  land,  worth 
a  hundred  dollars  an  acre  under  the  hammer.  All 
this  would  some  day  descend  to  Morris,  he  being  the 
only  child. 

A  short,  wiry,  quiet  man,  with  a  red  chin  -  whisker 
and  blue  eyes,  leisurely  appeared  in  the  tool -house 
door  at  the  splash  of  Davenport's  wheels  in  the  gravel. 
He  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  while  Morris 
tied  his  horse,  and  finally  advanced  a  few  steps. 

"Hello,  father!"  said  the  latter. 

"Hello,  boy!"  answered  the  father. 

He  did  not  offer  to  shake  hands,  but,  instead,  looked 
his  son's  horse  and  wagon  over  with  polite  interest. 
Morris  always  had  something  new.  In  spite  of  his 
smallness,  there  was  that  about  the  senior  Davenport 
which  compelled  respect.  There  was  a  game  -  cock 
sprightliness  in  his  build  and  a  subtle  something  in 
his  mild  eye  which  warned  that  he,  while  probably 
long-suffering,  would  be  a  bad  man  to  rile. 

After  a  brief  exchange  of  words  about  the  burned 
barn,  Morris  entered  the  house.  He  found  his  mother 
in  the  kitchen,  baking,  assisted  by  a  girl.  Her  hair 
was  gray,  but  rippled  blithely  from  a  low,  square 

24 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

brow,-  and  ended  behind  in  a  single  short  curl,  which 
had  the  effect  of  being  pinned  on,  like  an  ornament. 
In  her  laughing,  brown  eyes  one  saw  Morris,  with 
something  feminine  added.  Her  straight  lips  were 
also  his,  but  they  ended  in  a  dimple  which  he  could 
not  claim. 

She  mischievously  placed  a  floury  hand  on  each  of 
his  cheeks  and  kissed  him,  tiptoeing  a  little.  When 
she  released  him,  he  turned  to  a  heap  of  crisp,  golden- 
brown  dough-nuts  and  took  half  of  one  at  a  bite,  with 
boyish  voracity. 

"Morris,  we  are  so  sorry  about  the  barn,"  said  his 
mother,  sympathetically. 

She  then  questioned  him  closely  about  the  insurance, 
the  condition  of  the  foundations,  and  his  plans  for 
the  new  buildings.  He  answered  her  minutely,  and 
it  was  clear  that  she  was  a  woman  of  business,  in  whose 
judgment  he  had  faith.  It  was  not  difficult,  either, 
to  trace  a  connection  between  those  clear,  intelligent 
eyes  of  hers  and  the  prosperity  strewn  all  about,  though 
it  is  not  intimated  that  Henry  Davenport  was  in  any 
ill  sense  made  by  his  wife,  or  chiefly  known  to  fame 
as  her  husband.  He  had  a  decided  individuality  of  his 
own. 

"We  could  see  the  fire  so  plainly  from  here,"  Mrs. 
Davenport  continued.  "I  thought  it  must  be  either 
Drake's  or  Shoemaker's,  and  when  your  father  came 
back  and  said  it  was  your  place,  I  could  scarcely  be- 
lieve him.  Fire  is  such  a  deceiving  thing  at  night. 
It  didn't  seem  over  a  mile  away  at  the  farthest;  and 
at  first  I  thought  it  might  be  even  Hemingway's.  I'm 
so  glad,  though,  that  no  more  stock  was  burned.  How 
does  Wilkinson  feel  about  it?" 

"He's  not  feeling  much  of  anything  at  present. 
He's  as  drunk  as  an  owl." 

"Your  father  thought  he  was  tipsy  when  he  drove 

25 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

by  here.  I  guess  that's  the  first  time  for  him  since 
he  took  the  farm.  He  has  done  pretty  well;  the  farm 
never  looked  better;  and  it's  excusable,  I  suppose,  so 
far  as  such  a  thing  can  be.  He  was  up  all  night,  and 
excited  and  worried." 

After  some  further  talk,  her  son  turned  towards  the 
door. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  stay  for  supper?  We'll  have 
fried  chicken,"  she  added,  temptingly. 

"  My  mouth  waters.  But  how  could  I  kill  time  for 
the  next  two  hours?"  he  asked,  teasingly. 

"Yes,  how  could  you,  with  nobody  but  your  old 
father  and  mother  to  talk  to?"  she  retorted.  "There's 
the  wood -pile,  and  I  dare  say  you  need  exercise." 
But  she  glanced  fondly  at  his  sturdy  frame.  The 
maid  snickered. 

"I'd  love  to  stay,  mother,  but  I  can't  do  it.  I'm 
too  busy.  But  I'll  come  out  Sunday  for  dinner,  sure." 
And  with  this  promise  he  kissed  her  and  left. 

The  Woodruff  stock-farm  lay  a  mile  south  of  the 
senior  Davenport's  place.  The  house,  unlike  its  neigh- 
bors, was  set  back  nearly  half  a  mile  from  the  high- 
way, on  an  eminence.  At  the  foot  of  this  eminence 
lay  the  track  on  which  the  young  horses'  mettle  was 
tested  and  developed. 

Seeing  two  drivers  at  work,  Davenport  whimsically 
turned  in.  Anything  in  the  shape  of  fine  horseflesh 
possessed  an  irresistible  fascination  for  him.  Reach- 
ing the  enclosure,  he  drove  in  onto  the  track  through 
a  gate.  The  two  horses  he  had  seen  were  just  coming 
down  the  stretch,  their  legs  working  with  the  preci- 
sion of  a  perfect  piece  of  machinery.  Being  headed 
directly  towards  him,  they  concealed  their  drivers  at 
first;  but,  as  they  came  closer,  Davenport  emitted  a  low 
whistle. 

The  driver  of  the  pole-horse  was  humped  over  the 

26 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

animal's  haunches  like  a  great  frog,  the  beak  of  his 
jockey-cap  aiding  the  resemblance.  The  gentleman 
was  Mr.  Bradley  Hayford.  The  other  driver  was  a 
woman.  Her  round  hat,  stuck  with  a  single  rakish 
feather,  rested  lightly  upon  a  thick  mass  of  tawny 
hair.  Her  earlocks  streamed  away  from  a  face  flushed 
with  excitement  and  eyes  glistening  like  polished  agate. 
Her  whip  played  rhythmically  but  very  lightly  upon 
her  horse's  shoulder.  This  was  Mrs.  Volley  Congreve. 

The  horses  were  coming  at  a  tremendous  pace,  and 
Volley,  in  the  heat  of  battle,  paid  no  more  attention 
to  Davenport,  drawn  off  to  one  side,  than  if  he  had  been 
a  crow  perched  on  a  fence-post.  Hayford,  however, 
was  an  older  hand  on  the  track  and  kept  a  cooler 
head. 

"Time  us!"  he  bawled,  in  stentorian  tones,  as  they 
thundered  by  almost  abreast.  Davenport  instantly 
drew  his  stop-watch. 

As  the  horses  circled  steadily  on  their  course,  like 
twin  planets  in  one  orbit,  Davenport  stood  up  in  his 
wagon  to  watch.  Both  animals  were  reaching  out 
in  splendid  style,  but  Hayford's  superior  driving  was 
beginning  to  tell,  and  he  was  slowly  drawing  ahead 
of  his  fair  rival.  At  the  three-quarter  post,  however, 
his  mare  broke;  and  though  she  instantly  caught  her 
feet,  under  her  driver's  skilled  hand,  it  was  not  before 
Volley  was  alongside  again. 

It  was  now  anybody's  race,  and  Davenport  sprang 
onto  his  seat  so  as  not  to  miss  a  step.  Both  horses 
came  down  the  stretch  at  a  beautiful  pace,  eager  as 
their  drivers  to  win,  with  heads  thrust  straight  out 
before  them,  like  arrows  from  the  bow,  and  their 
quivering  nostrils  distended  until  they  showed  blood- 
red  within. 

Hayford  was  again  drawing  ahead,  when  suddenly 
Mrs.  Congreve  lifted  her  whip  high  in  the  air.  For 

27 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

an  instant  it  quivered  there  threateningly;  then  it 
fell  upon  the  horse's  wet,  taut  hide  with  a  crack  like 
a  pistol-shot.  A  novice  would  have  seen  no  gain  in 
speed,  for  the  noble  animal  seemed  already  to  be 
doing  its  utmost.  But  again  and  again  the  gloved 
hand  lifted,  the  red  lips  set  sternly,  even  cruelly,  and 
the  blows  fell  like  a  pitiless  hail,  until  she  shot  past 
Davenport  half  a  length  ahead  of  the  other  horse. 

Hayford  was  the  first  to  stop  and  turn  his  horse 
and  get  back  to  the  impromptu  judge's  stand.  His 
round,  heavy  face,  with  its  big  eyes,  was  spread  in  a 
grin. 

"What  time?"  he  asked. 

"One  eight  for  the  half,"  said  Davenport. 

"  Better  than  two  sixteen  for  the  mile.  That  ain't 
bad  for  three-year-olds."  He  swung  down — lightly,  for 
so  heavy  a  man — unchecked  his  panting,  dripping  horse, 
and  threw  a  blanket  over  it.  Then  he  turned  to  the 
lawyer  with  a  chuckle. 

"Say,  did  you  ever  see  anything  to  beat  that  finish 
of  Volley's?  That  hoss  wouldn't  have  stood  another 
ounce  of  pressure,  and  wouldn't  have  won  with  an 
ounce  less.  I've  drove  in  more  races,  I  suppose,  than 
that  colt  there  has  hairs;  but,  I'll  swear,  I  never  saw 
the  beat  of  that  finish.  You  don't  want  the  winner 
for  five  hundred,  do  you?" 

Pushing  his  cap  to  the  back  of  his  round,  closely 
cropped  head,  and  resting  his  knuckles  on  his  hips, 
he  turned  and  gazed  admiringly  at  the  approaching 
horse,  which  Volley  had  had  some  difficulty  in  stopping. 
When  it  came  up,  he  unchecked  and  blanketed  it,  as 
he  had  his  own,  and  fondly  patted  its  nose.  Then,  and 
not  till  then,  he  helped  the  fair  driver  to  the  ground. 

"Finer  than  silk,  Volley,"  said  he,  approvingly. 

Her  face  was  still  flushed  with  pleasure  and  excite- 
ment. As  she  glanced  at  Davenport  her  eyes  twinkled 

28 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

and  the  corners  of  her  pretty  but  slightly  sensual 
mouth  dimpled.  Yet  it  was  quite  apparent  that 
Davenport  had  caught  her  in  an  act  which  she  would 
have  much  preferred  to  keep  from  him. 

"Now  I'd  like  to  try  them  other  colts,"  said  Hay- 
ford,  briskly,  "but  I'm  thinking,  Volley,  you'd  better 
be  gettin'  back  to  town."  He  glanced  at  her,  know- 
ingly. "Morris  will  take  you  back,  I  guess." 

She  readily  assented  to  this,  and  was  helped  into 
Davenport's  runabout.  He  had  said  little,  and  as  they 
spun  noiselessly  down  the  dirt  road  to  the  highway, 
Volley  scanned  his  face  curiously  and  a  little  uneasily. 

"  Been  out  to  your  mother's?"  he  asked,  finally.  The 
sarcastic  tone  did  not  escape  her. 

"I  have,"  she  answered,  firmly. 

"Find  her  well?" 

"I  did." 

"Have  a  pleasant  visit?" 

"Morris,  you  needn't  try  to  twit  me.  You  are  pro- 
voked because  I  stopped  at  Woodruff's  with  Bradley." 

"It's  nothing  to  me." 

"You  think  I  did  wrong." 

"You  think  so  yourself." 

"  I  do  not.  If  I  had,  I  shouldn't  have  done  it. 
We  went  out  to  mother's,  where  Bradley  was  going 
to  leave  me  for  a  couple  of  hours,  while  he  exercised 
his  horses.  I  found  a  bevy  of  old  ladies  at  home.  I 
knew  I  couldn't  stand  their  twaddle  for  two  hours,  so 
I  told  Bradley  to  wait.  After  about  twenty  minutes 
I  came  out  and  went  down  with  him  to  Woodruff's 
to  see  his  horses.  Almost  before  I  knew  it  —  I  told 
him  not  to  do  it  —  he  had  two  of  them  hooked  into 
sulkies,  and  said  I  had  to  race.  Morris,  you  couldn't 
have  resisted  it  yourself,  with  that  beautiful  horse." 

Very  likely  he  could  not,  but  he  set  himself  sternly 
to  his  duty. 

2Q 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"  But  you  felt  as  if  you  ought  to  resist  it." 

"How  you  catch  up  one's  words!"  said  she,  com- 
plainingly. 

"Because  they  are  so  easy  to  catch.  Did  it  ever 
strike  you,  Volley,  that  you  spend  too  much  time 
away  from  home?"  he  asked,  bluntly. 

"You  must  be  very  sure  of  it,  to  speak  so  plainly," 
she  answered,  coldly. 

"You  leave  Harvey  alone  too  much,"  he  continued, 
resolved  to  have  it  out,  now  that  the  gauntlet  was 
down.  "  He  has  too  much  time  to  think  about  him- 
self. A  man  in  his  condition  is  naturally  sensitive, 
and  Harvey  was  sensitive  enough  before  his  paralysis. 
If  you  are  not  careful,  he  will  get  it  into  his  head  that 
you  are  neglecting  him,  and  then  there  will  be  trouble. 
The  idea  is  already  prowling  around  him,  but  he  is 
fighting  it  off.  You  may  smile,  but  I've  seen  it  for 
some  time.  He  loves  you — I  needn't  say  it — and  he 
wouldn't  do  you  an  injustice,  even  in  his  thoughts, 
for  the  world.  He  shrinks,  too,  from  the  thought  that 
he  is  no  longer  able  to  amuse  you." 

"It  is  I  that  am  no  longer  able  to  amuse  him,"  she 
answered,  in  defence.  "  He  has  changed  so,  even  in 
the  last  year.  You  don't  see  it,  because  visitors  al- 
ways stimulate  him — you  especially;  but  when  we  are 
alone  he  does  nothing  but  read  and  write  and  work  on 
his  drawings.  What  company  is  that  for  a  woman? 
Sometimes  I'm  so  lonesome,  with  Bert  away  all  day, 
that  I  think  my  heart  will  break.  Then,  to  be  as  poor 
as  Job's  turkey,  besides,  is  too  much." 

"You  have  no  right  to  complain  of  poverty,  Volley," 
he  answered.  He  handled  Congreve's  property  —  the 
little  that  was  left  —  and  knew  to  a  cent  what  the 
family's  income  was.  It  was  not  much,  he  had  to 
confess,  but  other  families  in  Tellfair  lived  on  less, 
and  fairly  well. 

3° 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"I  haven't!"  she  exclaimed.  "Well,  that's  good!" 
and  she  gave  a  short  laugh.  "How  long  do  you  think 
I  have  worn  this  skirt,  Mr.  Wiseman?" 

He  glanced  at  her  snug  figure,  belted  and  buttoned 
beyond  a  wrinkle. 

"It  doesn't  look  very  old.!' 

"Well,  how  old?" 

"Two  years." 

"I've  had  it  five  years,  and  four-fifths  of  the  women 
in  Tellfair  know  it." 

"It  looks  better  than  the  skirts  of  four -fifths  of 
them,"  he  observed. 

"If  it  didn't  I  wouldn't  wear  it,"  she  answered, 
proudly.  "But  I've  pressed  it  and  cleaned  it  and 
turned  it  until  I'm  so  sick  of  it  that  I'd  like  to  burn 
it  up.  But  if  I  did,  I'd  have  to  stay  in  bed." 

Davenport  did  not  answer  at  once.  A  man  of  his 
income  was  not  in  a  position  to  discourse  on  economy 
and  the  pleasures  of  poverty. 

"There's  another  thing  that  I  ought  to  tell  you, 
Volley,  as  a  friend,"  he  continued.  "Harvey  is  one 
of  the  most  sensible  men  in  the  world,  and  the  last 
man  to  suffer  from  baseless  jealousy.  He's  too  gener- 
ous. Yet  I  believe,  in  my  heart,  that  he  is  jealous  of 
Bradley  Hay  ford." 

"My  own  cousin!"  she  cried,  indignantly.  "This  is 
outrageous." 

"No,  it  isn't.  It's  the  truth,  and  I'm  the  man  to 
tell  it.  Bradley  is  your  cousin,  but  Harvey  is  your 
husband.  I  don't  mean  to  insinuate  that  Bradley 
loves  you,  or  that  you  love  him,  except  as  cousins. 
You  needn't  do  that  in  order  to  wrong  Harvey.  When 
you  give  Bradley  the  time  and  attention  that  are  due 
Harvey,  you  are  giving  due  cause  for  jealousy." 

"  But  Harvey  wants  me  to  go  out  riding  with  Bradley. 
He  makes  me  go,  for  he  knows  how  few  pleasures  I 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

have.  And  he  and  Bradley  are  just  as  good  friends  as 
they  ever  were.  Bradley  comes  to  see  him  as  often  as 
you  do  —  oftener  —  when  I'm  not  there,  too — and  they 
talk  together  by  the  hour.  Morris,  you  are  wrong, 
wrong,  wrong!" 

"I  hope  I  am,  but  I  doubt  it.  You  struck  the 
key-note  of  the  trouble  when  you  said  that  Harvey 
knows  how  few  pleasures  you  have.  He  fancies  your 
home  life  doesn't  satisfy  you.  He  knows  that  you  en- 
joy riding;  and,  as  he  wants  you  to  have  a  good  time, 
he  tells  you  to  go.  It's  all  right  to  go  occasionally,  too; 
I'm  no  prude.  But  if  you  could  just  show  Harvey  that 
for  a  steady  thing  you  prefer  his  company  at  home  to 
Hayford's  in  a  buggy,  you'd  work  a  wonderful  change." 

"If  he  doesn't  know  that  now,  I  don't  see  how  I 
could  make  it  any  plainer,"  said  she,  virtuously. 

"By  staying  at  home  more." 

"But  when  he  insists  on  my  going  out,  what  can 
I  do?" 

"Cut  out  that  twaddle,  Volley,"  he  returned,  with 
some  heat.  "You  know  very  well  he  isn't  going  to 
insist  on  your  doing  a  thing  you  don't  like  to  do.  He 
tells  you  to  go  because  he  knows  you  want  to  go.  An- 
other reason  why  he  tells  you  to  go  is  because  he  hates 
jealousy,  and  he's  struggling  to  convince  himself  that 
he  isn't  jealous.  Jealousy  is  a  proper  enough  thing  at 
times,  though." 

"And  this  is  one  of  the  times,  why  don't  you  add?" 
said  she,  spitefully. 

"  Because  I  knew  that  you  would  add  it  for  yourself," 
he  answered,  with  a  grim  smile. 

Little  was  said  for  the  next  mile.  Volley  affected 
to  be  interested  in  the  passing  landscape,  and  Daven- 
port was  willing  to  give  his  advice  time  to  soak  in. 
But  at  last  her  good -nature  asserted  itself,  and  she 
said,  frankly: 

32 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"A  great  many  women  would  be  terribly  angry  at 
you,  Morris,  for  talking  to  them  like  this." 

"I  am  glad  that  you  are  not,"  he  answered,  slyly. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  am  not — yet.  I  think  I  should 
be  if  I  had  more  self-respect."  She  eyed  him  steadily. 
"I  am  not  happy;  I  am  just  reckless.  My  life  is  not 
what  I  once  thought  it  would  be.  I  am  a  disappointed 
woman." 

"In  what  respect?" 

"In  every  respect.  I  have  no  ambition,  no  goal. 
I  just  drift  along  from  day  to  day.  I'll  never  have 
any  more  children,  and  I  don't  want  any  more.  Bertha 
takes  care  of  herself.  I  am  happy  if  I  can  get  a  new 
shirt-waist,  and  unhappy  if  I  can't.  There  is  no  future 
before  me.  Anticipation  was  half  of  my  life,  and  now 
that  is  gone.  The  way  Harvey  is,  we  shall  never  be 
better  off  financially,  and  we  may  be  worse.  We'll 
continue  to  live  in  the  same  house,  with  the  same 
meagre  income,  and  the  same  deadly  round  of  drudgery, 
until  —  until  a  break  comes.  It's  rather  late  in  the 
day  to  speak  of  it,  but  I  think  I  made  my  first  great 
mistake  when  I  married  a  country  lawyer — begging 
your  excellency's  pardon!"  she  added,  with  a  mock 
bow. 

"You  are  making  another  mistake  by  confessing  it." 

"I  kept  it  to  myself  a  good  while — for  a  woman," 
she  answered,  callously.  "My  Washington  life  spoiled 
me  forever  for  this  village  vegetation." 

"You  are  bitter  now." 

"Oh  no,  just  truthful,  as  you  are  so  fond  of  saying," 
she  answered,  with  velvet  cynicism.  "But  the  mood 
won't  last — don't  fear.  I'll  go  back  again  to  acting 
the  old,  happy,  domestic  lie  again  in  a  jiffy,  and  no- 
body but  you  will  ever  know  that  I  had  my  stage- 
clothes  off.  There!"  she  exclaimed  under  her  breath, 
as  she  gayly  waved  her  handkerchief  to  a  group  of 
3  33 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

ladies  (they  were  now  entering  Tellfair).  "I'm  back 
already." 

A  woman  may  not  love  her  husband;  but  if  she 
has  promised  to  love  him,  if  the  world  thinks  she  loves 
him,  and  if  he  thinks  so  too,  there  will  come  moments 
when  she  also  thinks  so.  As  Mrs.  Congreve  stood  at 
her  door,  a  sudden,  unexpected,  rare  tenderness  for 
Harvey  took  possession  of  her;  and  as  she  laid  her 
hand  upon  the  knob  she  said  to  herself,  "Shall  I  be 
honest  and  tell  him  that  I  went  to  the  track  with 
Bradley?"  Her  heart  was  actually  thumping. 

She  entered  the  study  with  the  question  still  unan- 
swered. Harvey  sat  at  a  table  with  his  back  towards 
her,  busy  with  compass,  square,  and  pencil.  Evident- 
ly he  had  exorcised  his  jealous  demon,  for  he  was  in 
one  of  those  states  of  extreme  exaltation  which  alter- 
nated in  him  with  extreme  despondency.  As  he  drew 
he  whistled — not  loudly,  but  with  a  tense,  suppressed 
joyousness. 

Volley  knew  that  he  was  working  on  a  sectional 
drawing  of  a  marine  engine — one  of  the  many  projects 
which  occupied  his  busy  brain.  She  came  up  softly 
behind  him,  though  not  stealthily,  for  he  was  easily 
startled,  and  laid  her  hands  on  his  shoulders.  He  at 
once  laid  down  his  instruments  and  took  the  comely 
hands  in  his  own. 

"Well,  dear,  how  did  you  find  mother  and  Sammy 
and  the  chickens  and  the  pigs?"  he  asked,  gayly. 

"All  well,  but  grunting  a  little."  And  as  he  looked 
up  she  added,  with  a  twinkle,  "That  is,  the  pigs." 

Harvey  never  loved  his  wife  more  than  just  after  one 
of  these  lambent  flashes  of  humor,  though  she  was  ca- 
pable of  flashes  which  were  not  lambent;  and  he  now 
lifted  his  hands  laboriously  to  her  neck. 

"  Kiss  me!"  he  said,  softly. 

She  obediently  bent  her  head  and  laid  her  full,  warm 

34 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

lips  on  his  thin,  cold  ones;  but  her  eyes  turned  slightly 
aside.  Their  gray  surface  was  as  unruffled  as  a  sleep- 
ing pool,  but  they  were  not  quite  prepared  to  meet 
his  dark,  eager,  happy  glance. 

She  did  not  tell  him.  To  chill  that  precious  moment 
for  him,  even  in  the  interest  of  truth,  required  more 
heroism  than  she  possessed. 


THE  rumored  return  of  the  Priestleys  to  Tellfair 
ousted  all  other  topics  for  at  least  a  week  in  Fever- 
sham's  drug-store,  Hemingway's  grocery,  the  post-office, 
and  other  local  forums.  Twelve  years  before  the 
events  of  this  narrative,  the  old  Shackleford  house, 
after  a  year's  vacancy,  was  bought  and  occupied  by  a 
family  who  shut  themselves  up  in  their  new  home  like 
a  feudal  lord  in  his  castle.  This  setting  at  naught  of 
all  social  precedents,  traditions,  and  customs  of  Tellfair 
started  such  a  conflagration  of  gossip  as  perhaps  had 
never  raged  before  in  the  village — and  it  had  had  some 
big  ones. 

The  new-comers  studiously  refrained  from  feeding 
the  flame  with  so  much  as  one  twig  of  news,  but  some 
facts  were  learned,  of  course.  It  was  known,  to  begin 
with,  that  there  were  seven  in  the  family.  The  father 
(he  took  an  early  morning  walk  each  day)  was  a  large, 
gray-haired  man  of  military  bearing,  quiet  and  mild 
of  manner,  but  with  an  eye  that  others  than  small 
boys  found  it  difficult  to  meet.  The  mother,  who  was 
seen  occasionally  in  her  carriage,  was  tall,  as  dark 
as  a  daughter  of  Egypt,  and  as  haughty  as  a  queen. 
Four  of  her  five  daughters  shared  her  dusky  beauty, 
but  the  fifth  and  youngest — about  ten  at  this  time — 
was  fair,  like  her  father. 

The  family  was  rich,  measured  by  Tellfair  standards. 
They  drove  fine  horses,  and  rode  in  odd,  imported 
vehicles  of  a  type  hitherto  unseen  in  Tellfair.  They 

36 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

dressed  elegantly,  though  quietly,  and  no  early  straw- 
berries were  too  high-priced  for  their  table. 

These  facts  lay  on  the  surface — were  mere  gold-dust, 
so  to  speak,  to  be  had  for  the  washing.  What  was 
wanted  most  were  some  nuggets  of  information,  and 
naturally  it  was  not  long  before  some  were  unearthed. 
Lizzie  McMaster,  daughter  and  assistant  of  the  post- 
master, was  authority  for  the  statement  that  the  girls' 
Christian  names  were  Honoria,  Helen,  Clementine, 
Josephine,  and  Victoria.  This  formidable  nomenclat- 
ure impressed  some  people  and  amused  others.  But 
when  the  bearers  became  a  little  known,  it  impressed 
a  vastly  greater  number  than  it  amused,  for  the  young 
women  were  as  extraordinary  as  their  names.  They  ex- 
haled a  perfume  never  before  smelled  in  Tellfair ;  their 
clothes  rustled  in  a  manner  that  no  village  dressmaker 
could  imitate  ;  they  wore  the  oddest  kinds  of  rings, 
lockets,  and  brooches,  duplicates  of  which  could  not  be 
found  even  by  those  people  who  shopped  in  Chicago. 

The  family  all  spoke  the  purest  English,  so  far  as 
was  known.  Yet  Hemingway's  delivery  boy  heard  a 
bevy  of  the  girls  on  the  porch  one  day  break  into  a 
laugh  over  something  they  saw  in  the  Tellfair  Citizen, 
and  then  fall  to  chattering  like  magpies  in  a  foreign 
tongue.  When  this  bit  of  news  was  circulated,  more 
than  one  copy  of  the  Citizen  for  that  week  was  hunted 
up  and  reread  in  the  hope  of  discovering  what  had 
stirred  the  risibilities  of  the  Priestley  girls.  Old  Mrs. 
Donner,  in  fact,  asked  young  Belcher,  the  delivery 
boy,  what  page  the  girls  were  looking  at  when  they 
laughed,  and  what  part  of  the  page,  as  nearly  as  he 
could  remember.  But  she  discovered  nothing,  where- 
upon everybody  else  concluded  that  there  was  nothing 
to  be  discovered.  The  foreign  tongue,  however,  was 
later  pronounced  to  be  French  when  it  was  learned 
(through  Miss  McMaster  again)  that  the  Priestleys 

37 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

wrote  letters  to  people  in  New  Orleans  with  French 
names,  and  also  to  people  in  France. 

The  first  Sunday  following  the  Priestleys'  arrival 
it  rained  in  sheets;  but  on  the  second  Sunday,  a  beau- 
tiful day  in  May,  the  village  certainly  expected  the 
family  to  appear  at  church.  But  which  church?  This 
was  the  question  which  exercised  more  than  one  mind. 
Regular  attendants  hoped  it  would  be  their  church, 
and  then  dismissed  the  matter  —  after  dressing  with 
extra  care.  But  the  floating  or  independent  worship- 
pers had  a  harder  time  of  it,  and  chose  their  church 
that  morning  only  after  some  careful  weighing  of 
probabilities.  The  Priestleys  fooled  them  all,  how- 
ever, and  stayed  at  home.  Nor  did  they  ever,  during 
their  six  years'  residence  in  Tellfair,  pass  the  thresh- 
old of  any  church. 

Those  ladies  in  Tellfair  whose  self-appointed  office  it 
was  to  keep  alive  the  sacred  flame  on  the  social  altar 
always  made  it  a  point  to  call,  after  a  decent  interval, 
upon  new  arrivals.  But  not  one  of  them  ever  entered 
the  iron  gate  of  the  Priestleys ' ;  not  because  they  were 
abashed — for  Tellfair  had  its  share  of  gentlewomen — 
but  because  the  strangers  had  shown  unmistakably 
that  they  wanted  to  be  let  alone. 

If  ever  a  family  could  stand  being  let  alone,  the 
Priestleys  were  certainly  that  family.  Their  home 
life — so  much  of  it  as  could  be  seen  through  the  iron 
fence — was  ideal.  Laughter,  song,  the  strumming  of 
guitars,  the  booming  of  the  piano,  floated  through 
those  dusty  bars  at  all  times.  The  family  had  the 
Southern  love  of  out-door  life,  and  until  a  late  hour 
on  summer  nights  the  white  gowns  of  the  girls  gleamed 
in  the  cool,  cavernous  depths  of  the  great  porch,  with 
the  glow  of  Mr.  Priestley's  cigar  usually  in  the  centre 
of  the  group.  They  played  croquet  and  tennis  out- 
doors, and  billiards  in-doors.  They  took  long,  all-day 

38 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

drives  into  the  country,  coming  back  laden  with  flowers 
in  the  spring  and  golden-rod  and  leaves  in  the  fall. 

During  the  year  they  had  few  or  no  visitors  from  out 
of  town;  but  each  Christmas  they  held  a  house-party 
for  a  fortnight.  It  was  supposed  by  Tellfairians  that 
the  guests  were  from  New  Orleans,  for  they  were  mostly 
dark  and  foreign-looking;  and  when  they  were  driven 
around  the  village  they  laughed  and  chattered  and 
gesticulated  in  a  way  which  sometimes  amused,  some- 
times offended  the  more  phlegmatic  Northerners. 

But  however  superficial  these  dark  people  may  have 
.seemed  to  native  eyes,  they  had  certainly  learned  the 
art  of  happiness.  These  two  weeks  were  always  one 
continuous  carnival.  Music  and  dancing  and  feast- 
ing filled  the  days  and  nights.  There  were  no  young 
children,  but  they  never  failed  to  have  a  Christmas- 
tree — it  could  be  seen  from  the  street — and  everybody 
entered  into  the  fun  with  the  abandon  of  youngsters. 
More  than  one  village  couple  would  stroll  past  the 
house  after  nightfall,  and  look  enviously  through  the 
iron  barrier  upon  the  light  and  warmth  and  good  cheer 
beyond.  And  when  the  visitors  had  flown,  like  beauti- 
ful birds  of  passage,  the  town  actually  felt  a  sense  of 
loss,  although  not  even  Alonzo  Weeks,  editor  of  the 
Citizen,  ever  learned  the  name  of  a  single  guest. 

No  family  secrets  leaked  out  the  Priestleys'  back 
door,  that  common  source  of  leakage.  The  cook  and 
three  maids,  which  the  family  brought  with  them, 
spoke  only  French.  Their  coachman,  though  an 
Irishman,  might  have  been  hired  for  his  reticence  alone 
— and  probably  was — for  he  was  almost  as  exclusive 
as  his  employer.  But  there  was  one  member  of  the 
family  retinue  which  Tellfair,  strangely  enough,  came  to 
know  well.  This  was  a  little,  dried-up,  genial,  active 
old  man  who  was  a  sort  of  buffer  between  the  family 
and  the  world.  He  bought  all  supplies  for  the  house, 

39 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

paid  all  bills,  carried  the  mail,  and,  in  short,  performed 
every  function  for  the  family  which  involved  contact 
with  the  public. 

As  a  consequence,  his  little,  stooped  figure  and 
wizened  face  soon  became  a  familiar  sight  on  Main 
Street,  where  he  was  known  simply  as  old  Campeau. 
In  spite  of  his  physical  insignificance  and  the  ridiculous 
flat  hat  which  he  always  wore,  he  quickly  won  the 
respect  of  everybody.  Though  doubtless  of  low  birth, 
he  had  a  simple  dignity — borrowed,  perhaps,  from  his 
master — which  kept  prying  curiosity  at  arm's-length. 
His  blue  eye  was  as  innocent  as  a  woman's,  and  his 
voice  as  soft  and  low.  He  was  tender  and  genial,  but 
no  one  ever  heard  him  spring  a  joke ;  and  his  face, 
when  not  animated  by  sympathy  or  interest,  was  rather 
sad. 

It  was  this  sadness  of  Campeau's,  perhaps,  which 
gave  rise  in  part  to  the  belief  that  the  Priestleys  had 
a  "past."  Their  singular  life  could  not  fail  of  itself 
to  color  such  a  belief.  Their  iron  fence,  social  isola- 
tion, and  foreign-tongued  servants  stimulated  specula- 
tion. The  village  began  to  suspect  in  time  that  beneath 
the  surface  of  the  Priestleys'  peaceful  life  lay  depths 
of  unrest — that  the  brightness  which  they  saw  was 
but  the  reflection  from  a  cloud.  What  the  family's 
secret  was — if  it  had  any — the  village  was  destined 
never  to  know;  but  they  would  not  believe  it  very  bad. 
At  least,  not  many  would.  There  were  some,  of  course, 
who  would  not  have  been  surprised,  any  day,  to  see  the 
family  arrested  in  a  body  and  marched  off  to  jail. 

The  world  respects  the  man  who  shows  his  indepen- 
dence of  it.  In  time,  Tellfair  actually  became  proud 
of  her  first  family,  and  adopted  them,  in  a  way,  in  spite 
of  themselves.  She  showed  them  to  her  visitors,  and 
told  their  story — with  variations.  She  pointed  out  their 
equipages  on  the  street.  She  accepted  checks  from  them 

40 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

— always  through  the  mail — for  public  enterprises.  She 
missed  them  when  they  closed  the  blinds  of  their  big 
house,  now  and  then,  and  slipped  away  for  a  fortnight 
— no  one  knew  whither. 

But  just  how  much  she  missed  them  she  never  knew 
until  one  morning  they  closed  their  blinds  and  opened 
them  no  more.  She  could  not  quite  believe  they  had 
gone  for  good  until  the  horses  and  carriages  and  furni- 
ture were  on  the  way  to  the  freight-house;  until  old 
Campeau  had  turned  the  great  brass  key  in  the  front 
door  and  trudged  sadly  towards  the  station,  saying 
-good-bye  to  no  one,  but  throwing  a  pathetic  farewell 
into  his  quasi-military  salute  to  those  whom  he  chanced 
to  pass.  His  gentle  presence  and  plethoric  purse  were 
missed  after  that  on  Main  Street.  The  neighbors  missed 
the  music  and  the  bright  morning  gowns  in  the  yard; 
and  there  were  others  who  missed  the  carriage  with  its 
sweet,  girlish  faces  and  flowers  or  autumn  leaves  from 
the  woods. 

Then  came  the  six  years'  sleep  of  the  old  house, 
when  winter's  snow  lay  banked  upon  the  porch  and 
summer's  bees  droned  over  the  neglected  flowers,  and 
the  barefoot  boys  peeped  through  the  iron  fence  on 
scorching  afternoons  and  dreamed,  and  the  dust  from 
the  road  powdered  the  tangled  lawn,  and  the  holly- 
hocks and  sunflowers  in  the  garden,  like  decaying  old 
families,  lifted  themselves  proudly  above  the  horde  of 
invading  weeds. 

Some  months  after  the  family's  departure,  Morris 
Davenport  had  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Priestley, 
in  New  Orleans,  asking  him  to  keep  an  eye  on  the 
property,  but  under  no  circumstances  to  rent  it.  He 
stated  further  that  the  taxes  would  be  remitted  by  his 
attorney  in  New  Orleans,  and  this  had  been  done. 

Three  years  passed;  then  came  another  letter  from 
Mr.  Priestley,  asking  Davenport  to  mortgage  the  house 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

for  all  he  could,  without  delay.  Evidently  the  Priest- 
leys'  wheel  of  fortune  had  turned.  Another  long  si- 
lence; then  came  the  news,  indirectly,  that  the  Priest- 
leys  had  sailed  for  France,  and  the  stories  about  Mrs. 
Priestley's  noble  or  even  royal  lineage  were  revived. 
But  almost  on  the  heels  of  this  came  the  tragic  and 
conflicting  news  that  the  Priestleys  had  all  been  swept 
away  in  New  Orleans  by  the  yellow-fever. 

The  old  house  looked  more  desolate  than  ever  now, 
and  some  people  preferred  not  to  pass  it  after  dark. 
As  for  the  little  barefoot  boys  who  pressed  their  brown 
faces  to  the  dusty  bars  of  the  fence,  this  fear  of  their 
elders  only  went  to  confirm  what  they  had  long  be- 
lieved about  the  strange  animal  under  the  porch,  the 
snakes  in  the  well,  and  the  robbers  in  the  barn. 

But  the  Priestleys  had  not  all  died,  and  some  of 
them  were  coming  back.  No  wonder  the  town  was 
stirred.  But  how  many?  Not  even  Davenport  could 
tell. 

Campeau  came  first,  as  anybody  might  have  known 
he  would.  He  arrived  on  an  early  train,  and  went 
directly  to  the  house.  Few  were  on  the  streets  at 
that  hour,  and  he  spoke  to  no  one.  He  was  dressed 
in  black.  Though  of  an  age  and  temperament  with 
which  time  ordinarily  makes  a  truce,  he  seemed  to 
have  grown  twelve  years  older  in  the  six.  When  he 
appeared  at  Simmons's  store,  though,  later  in  the 
forenoon,  it  began  to  look  more  like  old  times;  and 
old  man  Simmons  sharpened  his  pencil  for  a  good  fat 
order.  He  nearly  dropped  when  Campeau  asked  for 
some  crackers  and  cheese  and  nothing  more. 

"Glad  to  see  you  back,  Campeau,"  the  grocer  man- 
aged to  say,  however,  certain  that  when  the  family 
came  this  absurd  frugality  would  be  cut  short. 

"I  thank  you,  sir,"  answered  the  old  man,  with 
his  fine  dignity. 

42 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Family  comin'  back  to  Tellfair  again?"  asked  Sim- 
mons, as  he  lifted  his  cheese-knife.  Campeau  had  said 
that  he  would  take  the  groceries  with  him  —  another 
unprecedented  thing. 

"What  there  is  left  of  them,  sir." 

And  even  Anselm  Simmons,  who  was  not  famed 
for  his  delicacy,  thought  it  wise  to  inquire  no  further. 

Two  days  later  the  furniture  came — not  so  much 
as  had  gone  away,  by  any  means,  and  no  horses,  no 
carriages.  Then  came  the  family  itself  —  what  there 
was  left  of  it.  Quite  a  crowd  awaited  them  at  the 
^station,  for  Campeau  had  appeared,  fifteen  minutes 
before  train  time,  in  a  carriage  from  Hayford's  livery- 
stable.  He  was  dressed  in  the  black  clothes  in  which  he 
had  arrived;  and  these,  with  his  quaint,  flat  hat  and 
his  pale,  chastened  face,  gave  him  the  air  of  a  queer 
little  priest  who  had  been  snatched  up  by  genie  hands 
from  his  quiet  parish  across  seas  and  dropped  in  this 
alien  land. 

When  the  train  drew  in,  the  crowd  had  eyes  for  no- 
body but  the  Priestleys,  and  felt  quite  aggrieved  at 
Isaac  Buggs,  the  fattest  and  slowest  man  in  Tellfair, 
for  appearing  first  and  blocking  the  platform  of  the 
car.  Next  came  Mrs.  Buggs — almost  as  fat  and  slow 
as  Isaac — and  after  her  Miss  Alluvia  Buggs,  all  from 
a  shopping  expedition  to  Chicago.  A  travelling  sales- 
man next  stepped  down,  followed  by  a  second.  Were 
they  never  coming?  Then,  after  a  pause,  came  —  a 
Priestley.  One  who  knew  the  family  by  reputation 
only  would  have  recognized  her — tall,  dark,  and  slen- 
der, with  an  indefinable  air  of  distinction.  Behind 
her  came  a  sister  —  fair -haired,  blue -eyed,  and  not 
quite  so  tall.  This  must  be  Victoria — a  girl  of  sixteen 
when  Tellfair  last  saw  her — for  there  was  only  one 
light  one  in  the  family.  The  first  might  be  Josephine, 
for  she  was  nearest  Victoria's  age.  This  settled,  the 

43 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

spectators  waited  for  the  next  one.  But  no  next  came. 
These  two,  Tellfair  was  soon  to  know,  were  all  that  the 
terrible  Yellow  Jack  had  spared  out  of  seven. 

Campeau  advanced,  bareheaded.  His  mistresses 
smiled  brightly  upon  him  as  they  turned  over  their 
handbags  and  exchanged  a  few  words  —  in  English, 
those  nearest  to  them  noted.  Then  he  led  them  to  the 
carriage. 

Had  the  fair  pair  been  angels  warm  -  winged  from 
heaven,  Campeau  could  not  have  handed  them  in  more 
tenderly  or  paid  them  more  reverence.  When  he  had 
tucked  the  light  lap  -  robe  around  them,  he  gravely 
took  his  seat  beside  the  driver,  like  a  master  of  ceremo- 
nies, and  nodded  that  all  was  ready.  The  carriage  rolled 
off  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  and  Tellfair  had  entered,  in  a 
sense,  upon  a  new  era. 

As  the  girls  crossed  their  front  yard,  which  Campeau 
had  had  no  time  as  yet  to  reclaim  from  the  weeds  and 
rank  grass,  and  glanced  at  the  tangled  shrubbery,  the 
cracked  basin  of  the  fountain,  and  other  evidences  of 
neglect  and  decay,  their  hands  stole  together  in  a  tight, 
protracted  embrace,  and  Victoria  blinked  rapidly  behind 
her  veil. 

Inside,  however,  Campeau  had  taken  the  minutest 
care  to  reproduce  the  old  home  so  far  as  the  reduced 
furniture  would  permit.  The  piano  occupied  the  same 
corner  of  the  front  room.  Against  it  leaned  the  guitar 
of  the  dead  Honoria,  just  as  she  used  to  leave  it,  and 
still  wearing  the  blue  ribbon  she  had  tied  around  it 
only  three  days  before  her  tragic  death.  Above  the  in- 
struments hung  the  portraits  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Priestley. 
Chairs,  tables,  and  rugs  were  all  in  their  old  places; 
and  the  library  might  never  have  been  closed,  so  nat- 
urally were  books  and  papers  strewn  about. 

The  last  room  to  which  Campeau  led  them  was  their 
own,  on  the  second  floor  front.  An  old-fashioned  can- 

44 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

opied  bed,  with  purple  hangings,  stood  out  diagonally 
from  one  corner;  a  brass-legged  dressing-table  stood 
opposite,  and  a  little  ash  secretary  occupied  its  old 
place  between  the  windows.  On  a  table  in  the  centre 
lay  a  heap  of  blossoms  from  the  garden. 

The  young  women  had  thus  far  carried  themselves 
with  commendable  poise,  despite  the  tugging  at  their 
heartstrings  at  almost  every  turn.  But  as  Josephine 
lithely  stooped  and  buried  her  nose  in  the  sweet  cluster 
of  blooms,  their  fragrance,  with  the  associations  they 
stirred,  was  the  drop  too  much  for  her  brimming  heart. 
Jiastily  lifting  her  head,  with  dilated  nostrils,  she  gasped 
once  or  twice,  and  then  threw  herself  upon  the  bed  with 
a  stifled  cry. 

Victoria  stood  pale  and  motionless.  For  a  moment 
old  Campeau  looked  gravely  and  sorrowfully  at  the 
stricken  young  figure,  and  then  he  delicately  turned 
and  left  the  room. 


VI 

THHE  neighbors  of  the  Priestley s — some  of  them — 
1  watched  the  brown  house  during  the  days  that 
followed  as  closely  as  their  consciences  and  house-work 
would  allow.  In  some  instances,  this  was  very  closely 
indeed.  Old  Nancy  Betts  moved  her  sewing-machine 
from  the  east  window,  which  was  cooler,  to  the  west 
window,  which  overlooked  the  Priestleys'.  There  she 
sweat  through  the  sultry  afternoons  without  a  murmur, 
for  by  using  her  split  lenses — one  for  short  range,  the 
other  for  long — she  was  able  both  to  watch  and  sew, 
and  this  without  losing  either  a  stitch  or  the  flutter  of 
a  lace  curtain  in  the  big  house  among  the  trees. 

But  even  she  noted  nothing  for  a  day  or  two  which 
could  be  blown  into  news.  On  the  third  day,  though, 
she  got  a  good  look  at  one  of  the  girls  for  the  first 
time.  The  yellow-haired  Victoria  appeared  on  the  front 
porch,  dressed  with  care,  raised  her  white  sunshade,  and 
passed  down  the  gravelled  walk  to  the  street. 

Tellfair  presented  no  fairer  sight  that  morning  than 
this  girl  with  the  nodding  roses  on  her  hat  and  the  firm, 
white  arms  gleaming  coolly  through  her  thin  sleeves. 
As  she  stepped  from  the  board  sidewalk  into  the  beaten 
footpath  which  made  a  diagonal  cut  across  the  court- 
house square,  she  folded  her  sunshade,  like  a  butterfly 
folding  its  wings,  and  gathered  her  skirts  about  her, 
with  a  pretty,  snuggling  motion,  to  save  them  from 
pollution  by  the  dusty  grass. 

Thus  far  she  had  met  no  one  on  the  quiet  morning 

46 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

streets.  But  as  she  emerged  from  the  square  a  dilapi- 
dated buggy,  drawn  by  a  sleepy,  gray  horse,  rattled  by 
in  a  cloud  of  dust.  To  Victoria's  surprise,  the  white- 
haired  old  gentleman  inside,  who  shared  the  age  and 
dilapidation  of  his  horse  and  buggy,  courteously  lifted 
a  worn  glove  to  his  old-fashioned  black  straw  hat.  It 
was  Dr.  Burney,  who  seldom  passed  any  woman  with- 
out this  mark  of  respect;  and  Victoria,  who  could  not 
claim  a  single  acquaintance  in  Tellfair,  six  years  her 
home,  felt  a  mist  of  gratitude  in  her  eyes. 

She  turned  in  at  a  combination  drug-and-book  store 
QJI  Main  Street.  The  clerk  was  chaffing  two  young 
women  who  sat  at  the  soda  -  fountain,  sipping  frothy 
drinks.  Conversation  instantly  ceased  at  Victoria's 
entrance,  and  as  she  walked  to  the  rear  of  the  store, 
where  she  saw  some  book  -  shelves,  she  felt  that  the 
curious  eyes  of  the  girls  were  upon  her. 

"I  should  like  a  cook-book,"  said  she,  in  a  low  but 
clear  tone,  when  the  clerk  came  back.  The  tint  in  her 
cheek  may  have  deepened  a  trifle,  but  no  one  would 
have  suspected  therefrom  the  struggle  which  had  pre- 
ceded her  decision  to  make  this  purchase  in  person, 
instead  of  sending  Campeau.  For  Campeau  was  no 
longer  to  act  as  a  buffer  for  the  Priestleys.  Hence- 
forth, the  public,  instead  of  being  systematically  avoid- 
ed, was  to  be  openly  and  frankly  met.  The  reason  ap- 
peared later. 

"We  have  two  or  three  different  ones,"  said  the  clerk, 
naming  them.  "Which  one  would  you  like?" 

Victoria  hesitated  an  instant. 

"I  am  not  familiar  with  any  of  those  names,  I  be- 
lieve," she  answered,  as  if  there  might  be  a  great  many 
other  cook-books,  and  possibly  better  ones,  with  whose 
names  she  was  familiar.  "  I  should  like  the  best  one, 
though.  Do  you  know  which  of  them  is  considered  the 
best?" 

47 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"This  is  the  most  complete." 

He  took  down  a  volume  whose  bulk  fairly  staggered 
the  girl,  her  idea  of  a  cook-book  being  a  handy  little 
paper-backed  affair  which  could  be  slipped  behind  the 
kitchen  clock  or  tucked  under  one's  apron-string.  She 
opened  it,  though,  and  made  a  brave  show  of  looking 
it  over;  but  in  her  confusion  a  blur  of  black  and  white 
was  all  she  saw. 

"Is  it  all  just — recipes?"  she  asked,  rather  faintly, 
suspecting,  perhaps,  that  the  fat  volume  contained  a 
history  of  cooking  also,  and  possibly  the  lives  of  the 
world's  famous  chefs — a  line  of  biography  in  which  she 
was  not  interested. 

On  being  assured  that  it  contained  only  recipes,  she 
said  she  would  take  it,  and  fished  the  price  —  two 
dollars  —  out  of  her  little  net  purse.  But  she  had 
scarcely  parted  with  the  money,  once  so  plentiful,  now 
so  scarce,  before  she  looked  wistfully  at  the  smaller  and 
cheaper  books,  either  one  of  which  would  have  more 
than  answered  her  purpose.  She  sorely  wanted  to 
make  a  change ;  but  the  big  book  was  now  being  wrapped 
up,  and  the  new  resolutions  of  economy  were  too  green 
and  tender,  the  old  pride  too  deep-rooted  and  tough. 
Yet  her  conscience  hurt  her  as  she  walked  home.  Jo- 
sephine would  not  have  been  so  weak,  she  told  herself. 

Victoria  was  a  Priestley  rather  than  a  Joncaire  (her 
mother's  family);  and  as  no  Joncaire,  so  far  as  re- 
membered, had  ever  got  beyond  a  chafing-dish  stage 
in  the  culinary  art,  she  had  elected  to  do  the  cooking 
under  the  new  regime.  But  cooking  as  prescribed  in 
her  new  book  was  not  the  simple  process  she  had  al- 
ways imagined  it;  and  when  she  recalled  the  ease  with 
which  old  black  Flossie — now  lying,  poor  thing,  in  a 
fever  trench ! — used  to  get  up  a  grand  dinner  for  forty 
or  more,  it  seemed  to  her  that  a  great  person  had  passed 
unhonored  and  unsung. 

48 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

However,  she  valorously  attacked  the  formulas  in 
the  book.  She  kept  Campeau  trotting  half  the  time  be- 
tween the  house  and  the  stores  for  the  endless  ingredi- 
ents called  for  by  the  recipes,  and  winced  at  their  rap- 
idly growing  grocery  bills.  She  measured  out  spices, 
baking-powders,  flour,  and  milk  as  carefully  as  a  pre- 
scription clerk  measures  out  the  deadliest  drugs.  She 
timed  her  baking  to  the  second,  and  hovered  over  the 
range  until,  between  heat  and  anxiety,  her  cheeks  were 
as  red  as  the  peonies  along  the  garden-wall. 

But,  alas!  cakes  fell;  pies  ran  over,  or  scorched  or 
-turned  soggy;  bread  seemed  determined  to  be  either 
underdone  or  overdone,  and  the  witches  took  possession 
of  the  coffee-pot.  The  climax  was  reached  at  break- 
fast on  the  fourth  morning.  She  guiltily  placed  on 
the  table  some  objects  which,  according  to  the  cook- 
book, should  have  been  Parker-house  rolls,  but  which 
their  originator  certainly  would  never  have  recognized, 
or  at  least  owned. 

Josephine  heroically  attacked  one  of  the  sodden 
lumps  of  dough,  and  tried  to  look  unconscious;  but 
Victoria,  after  choking  down  a  mouthful  or  two,  hastily 
arose  and  left  the  room.  Josephine  finished  her  break- 
fast— it  did  not  take  long — and  followed  with  a  know- 
ing smile.  She  found  her  sister  on  the  library  couch, 
softly  crying.  She  sat  down  on  the  edge,  and  laid  her 
hand  soothingly  on  the  other's  yellow  head. 

"Vic,  you  can't  cook  any  more  than  a  rabbit,  and 
nobody  could  expect  you  to.  Cooking  doesn't  run  in 
our  family.  We've  never  been  trained  to  it.  We'll 
hire  a  cook  for  a  while,  although  we  can't  afford  it, 
and  you  will  learn  more  from  her  in  a  week  than  you 
could  in  a  year  from  that  deceitful  cook-book.  It  will 
really  be  cheaper,  too,  I  believe,  because  it  seems  to 
me  that  some  delivery-boy  is  here  about  half  the  time. 
Vic,  you  don't  flirt  with  them!"  She  dropped  down 
4  49 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

and  laughed  in  the  other's  neck,  and  Victoria  gave 
her  a  squeeze. 

Campeau  ate  after  his  mistresses.  As  soon  as  he 
was  done  his  breakfast,  Josephine  despatched  him  in 
search  of  a  cook;  and  she  declared  mischievously  to 
Victoria  that  he  moved  off  with  more  alacrity  than 
she  had  seen  him  display  in  many  a  day. 

That  afternoon,  Mrs.  Betts  reported  to  her  next- 
door  neighbor,  as  the  second  noteworthy  event  of  her 
four  days'  watch,  that  both  the  Priestley  girls  had 
gone  down-town — "And  dressed  pretty  well  for  people 
presumin'ly  poor,  /  should  say,"  she  added,  severely. 

About  the  time  she  was  making  this  report,  the  young 
women  entered  Morris  Davenport's  office.  They  saw 
a  man  tilted  back  in  a  chair,  with  his  back  towards 
them,  and  his  feet  cocked  up  on  the  window-sill.  His 
hands  were  clasped  behind  his  auburn  head,  and  the 
smoke  of  a  cigar  drifted  upward  in  blue  wreaths. 

"Bertha,  if  I  should  be  out  when  Ole  Oleson  calls 
this  afternoon,  and  he  tries  to  put  you  off  again  on 
that  bill  of  Trimmer's,  tell  him  to  pay  to-day,  or  to- 
morrow I  shall  have  an  officer  out  at  his  place  bright 
and  early  to  take  a  cow  or  two.  His  lying  excuses 
were  amusing  for  a  while,  but  his  ingenuity  seems  to 
have  petered  out,  and  he  is  getting  commonplace." 

There  was  no  "Bertha"  in  sight,  and  the  sisters 
glanced  at  each  other  in  embarrassment  over  their  un- 
witting eavesdropping.  Then  Josephine  said: 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  is  this  Mr.  Davenport?" 

Davenport  brought  his  feet  to  the  floor  rather  has- 
tily, laid  his  cigar  on  the  window-sill,  and  arose.  The 
act  revealed  to  the  girls  a  square,  sharply  cut  face  and 
a  sturdy,  well-knit  figure — the  face  and  figure  of  a  man 
of  action. 

"I  beg  your  pardon!  I  thought  it  was  my  stenog- 
rapher who  had  come  in,"  he  said,  meeting  their  smile 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

half-way.  "You  are  the  Miss  Priestleys,  I  believe.  Just 
step  this  way,  please."  And  he  threw  open  his  private 
office. 

"We  came  up  to  find  out  something  about  the 
mortgage  on  our  house,  Mr.  Davenport,"  said  Jose- 
phine, at  once.  "I  believe  there  is  such  a  mortgage." 

Wondering  at  their  naive  ignorance  about  a  matter 
of  such  importance,  he  stated  briefly  that  there  was 
originally  a  mortgage  of  five  thousand  dollars  on  the 
property,  but  that  it  had  been  reduced  to  two;  that 
it  was  held  by  one  Bradley  Hayford;  that  the  interest 
jvas  six  per  cent,  per  annum,  or  one  hundred  and  twen- 
ty dollars,  and  that  this  interest  fell  due  in  the  fall. 

"I  suppose  you  know,"  he  added,  though  sure  she 
did  not,  "that  last  year's  interest  was  not  paid.  There 
is,  therefore,  two  hundred  and  forty  dollars  due  this 
year." 

Josephine's  beautiful  face  turned  a  bit  paler. 

"There  must  be  some  mistake  about  that,  Mr.  Dav- 
enport," said  she,  quickly.  "We  have  never  heard 
anything  about  it  from  our  father's  attorney." 

"I  am  very  sorry,  but  it  is  certainly  true,"  answered 
Davenport.  He  was  too  old  a  hand  to  take  umbrage 
at  any  reflections  from  a  woman  on  his  accuracy. 
"There  is  no  reason  why  your  attorney  should  not 
have  told  you,  for  he  wrote  me  a  letter  last  fall  asking 
me  to  renew  the  mortgage,  and  to  make  arrangements 
to  carry  the  interest  over.  I  have  his  letter,  if  you 
would  like  to  see  it." 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Josephine,  apologetically.  "  Your  word 
is  sufficient,  of  course.  If  such  a  letter  was  written, 
the  interest  has  not  been  paid." 

She  dropped  her  eyes.  It  was  painful  to  be  re- 
minded by  a  stranger  of  those  terrible  days  when  death 
and  financial  disaster,  like  twin  demons,  had  made 
wreck  of  their  home. 

51 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"We  will  pay  the  interest  for  both  years,  of  course," 
she  concluded. 

"If  anything  should  happen  that  you  can't  do  it 
conveniently,"  said  Davenport,  respectfully,  "I  would 
say  that  the  property  will  stand  a  much  heavier  in- 
debtedness, and  that  I  can  handle  the  matter  without 
troubling  you  further.  I  presume,  though,  it  is  your 
policy  not  to  increase  the  mortgage  if  possible." 

"Yes,"  said  she,  and  gave  him  a  shy  glance  of  grati- 
tude. 

There  was  no  doubting  the  kindliness  of  those  red- 
dish-brown eyes.  Both  she  and  Victoria  had  nerved 
themselves  for  this  visit.  Brought  up  in  almost  nun- 
like  innocence  of  practical  affairs,  they  shrank  from 
them;  and  after  their  experience  in  New  Orleans, 
when  minions  of  the  law  swooped  down  on  them  like 
hawks  upon  motherless  chicks,  they  had  a  positive  ter- 
ror of  lawyers.  Davenport's  implication,  therefore,  that 
he  was  with  them,  not  against  them,  came  as  a  reve- 
lation and  relief. 

"When  does  the  mortgage  itself  fall  due?"  asked  Vic- 
toria, with  a  pretty  show  of  legal  acumen. 

"The  same  time  as  the  interest,"  said  he,  hiding  a 
smile. 

"  But  it  doesn't  have  to  be  paid  then?"  she  exclaimed, 
in  dismay. 

"Oh  no.  You  can  renew  it  again.  A  mortgage  of 
this  kind  falls  due  annually,  but  it  can  be  renewed  in- 
definitely as  long  as  both  parties  agree  to  it." 

"But  suppose  that  Mr. — the  man  that  holds  it- 
won 't  agree  to  it?"  asked  Josephine,  with  new  un- 
easiness. 

"  He  will.  If  he  doesn't,  somebody  else  will.  You 
can  trust  me  to  take  care  of  that." 

Josephine  was  more  than  thankful  to  do  this,  and 
yet  she  was  not  quite  satisfied. 

52 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"When  can  a  person  foreclose  a  mortgage?"  she 
asked,  anxiously. 

Davenport  explained  foreclosure,  and  convinced  them 
that  they  were  in  no  danger  of  being  turned  into  the 
street.  They  then  arose  to  go,  but  he  suggested,  with 
a  glance  outside,  that  they  wait  a  little  lest  they  get 
wet. 

The  day  had  been  oppressively  hot  and  still,  but 
within  the  last  few  minutes  the  temperature  had  fall- 
en perceptibly,  and  little  puffs  of  wind  were  bellying 
Davenport's  curtains  and  rustling  the  papers  on  his 
jiesk.  A  herd  of  black,  savage  clouds  was  coming  up 
the  western  sky,  their  heads  lifted  high,  and  horns  toss- 
ing threateningly  in  the  agitated  air,  as  if  looking  for 
that  which  they  might  destroy. 

The  wind,  suddenly  stiffening,  seized  the  topmost 
boughs  of  a  neighboring  maple  and  bent  them  back 
until  the  whitish  undersides  of  the  leaves  were  turned 
up — like  a  rude  lover  tilting  the  shy  face  of  a  maid  for 
a  kiss.  The  inky  cloud -banks  were  veined  with  fire, 
and  a  low,  sullen  roar  came  forth,  like  the  distant 
bellowing  of  a  thousand  bulls.  Then  the  wind  rose 
still  higher;  dust  and  leaves  filled  the  air;  the  trees 
tossed  their  arms  in  terror,  and  now  and  then  a  limb 
gave  way  with  a  sharp  report.  The  lightning,  draw- 
ing nearer,  shot  down  from  the  clouds  in  blinding 
flashes;  and  the  thunder — a  moment  before  majestic, 
deep -throated,  like  the  roll  of  chariots  in  the  hippo- 
drome of  heaven — became  a  mere  rattling,  crackling, 
ear-splitting  musketry.  Then  came  the  rain,  in  a  piti- 
less, beating,  blurred  torrent. 

The  trio  sat  in  silence.  Victoria,  always  sensitive 
to  an  electrical  atmosphere,  was  awed;  but  Josephine, 
moodily  tracing  an  analogy  between  the  destructive 
storm  and  the  disasters  which  had  overwhelmed  her 
family,  sat  with  compressed  lips,  slightly  distended 

53 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

nostrils,  and  defiant  eyes,  daring  it  to  its  worst.  The 
unpaid  interest  had  been  a  painful  discovery,  and  its 
payment  would  make  a  terrible  hole  in  the  little  sum 
which  stood  between  them  and  penury. 

Yet  she  might  have  carried  her  analogy  further,  for 
the  storm,  rough  as  it  was,  ministered  to  a  thirsty 
earth  and  a  sweltering  humanity;  and  its  sweet,  moist, 
pure  breath  came  in  at  the  window  like  a  benediction. 
Soon,  too,  the  sun  was  out  again,  decking  the  trees  with 
a  million  diamonds;  and  the  birds,  shaking  off  the  last 
drops,  began  to  pipe  up  their  scattered  mates. 

"I  think  we'll  go  back  to  your  cooking,  Vic,"  said 
Josephine,  as  the  pair,  with  lifted  skirts,  picked  their 
way  home  between  pools. 

"You  feel  bad,  dear,  about  that  interest,"  said  Vic- 
toria, sympathetically. 

"I  certainly  don't  feel  good  about  it." 

"Mr.  Davenport  said  that,  if  we  couldn't  raise  it,  it 
would  be  all  right." 

"It  won't  be  all  right,  though,"  answered  Josephine. 
"He'll  simply  add  it  to  the  mortgage,  and  next  year 
there  will  be  more  interest  to  pay.  It  now  amounts 
to  ten  dollars  a  month,  and  we  can't  stand  any  more. 
If  we  fall  behind  on  the  interest,  it  is  only  a  question 
of  time  until  we  sha'n't  have  a  home." 

"I  suppose  we  could  rent  a  cottage  here  for  what 
we  shall  have  to  pay  out  as  interest.  If  we  could,  and 
could  sell  the  house — "  She  paused,  doubtfully. 

"Could  you  see  that  dear  old  place  sold  over  our 
heads?"  asked  Josephine,  quiveringly.  "It's  the  last 
link  that  binds  us  to  the  past — the  last  thing  to  tell 
what  we  once  were.  Lose  that,  and  we  begin  life  over 
again,  with  all  that  has  gone  before  as  nothing.  We 
should  be  just  a  pair  of  orphans,  with  nothing  back 
of  us  or  before  us,  any  more  than  if  we  had  dropped 
from  the  clouds.  No ;  we'll  keep  the  house,  if  we  have 

54 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

to  go  hungry.  It's  our  last  anchor  to  family  his- 
tory." 

"I  don't  want  to  give  it  up  any  more  than  you  do, 
dear,"  protested  Victoria.  "I  was  just  thinking  what 
we  could  do  if  it  came  to  the  worst." 

"I  know  you  were.  Forgive  me,"  said  Josephine, 
with  instant  penitence.  "I  am  irritable  and  unkind 
to-day.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  be  cheerful  and 
brave,  and  to  set  you  a  good  example."  She  smiled 
sorrowfully.  "  I  have  thought  so  much  over  how  to 
make  the  little  we  have  left  go  as  far  as  possible !  Then 
to  have  that  little  swept  away  in  that  cold,  heartless 
way  took  the  spirit  right  out  of  me." 

"But  he  wasn't  cold  and  heartless,"  observed  Vic- 
toria, justly. 

"No,"  admitted  the  other.  "He  was  as  good  and 
kind  as  he  could  be.  But  he  did  speak  of  it  as  though 
it  were  a  mere  trifle — a  mere  after-thought." 

"It  didn't  strike  me  that  way,"  said  Victoria.  "I 
don't  suppose  he  knows  how  perilously  near  we  come 
to  being  paupers.  But  if  he  had  known,  and  dared 
to  show  it,  how  you  would  have  bristled!"  she  added, 
laughing. 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Josephine,  moodily.  "I 
don't  believe  my  bristles  will  ever  rise  again.  Music- 
teachers  are  better  off  without  such  weapons,  I  fancy." 

"I'm  going  to  retain  mine  until  I  get  my  first  pupil, 
at  least,"  declared  Victoria,  threateningly.  "We  forgot 
to  speak  to  Mr.  Davenport  about  our  music." 

"I  didn't  have  the  heart  to,  after  what  happened. 
We'll  go  up  and  see  him  again  to-morrow.  He's  the 
kind  of  a  man,  I  fancy,  that  knows  how  to  do  things. 
I  am  so  glad  that  he's  not  some  fussy  old  gentleman 
ready  to  take  us  under  his  wing." 


VII 

HOW  still  the  old  house  was  after  dark  !  The  girls 
pulled  their  chairs  through  the  French  windows 
on  to  the  side  porch,  and  rocked  for  hours.  How  still, 
also,  was  the  village!  Here  on  the  outskirts  there  was 
hardly  a  sound  except  the  trill  of  the  little  frogs  in  a 
neighboring  pond  and  the  grating  of  the  katydids,  and 
these  intensified  rather  than  relieved  the  silence. 

One  or  two  passing  vehicles  to  the  evening,  and  one 
or  two  pedestrians  to  the  hour,  measured  the  life  on 
the  street.  A  catbird,  hidden  somewhere  in  the  misty, 
moonlit  maze  of  the  garden,  would  occasionally  emit  a 
low,  fitful  strain,  as  if  singing  in  its  sleep.  There  was 
something  sweetly  solemn  in  this  nocturnal  music,  when 
all  other  little  feathered  heads  were  tucked  away  under 
wings. 

Sometimes  the  wail  of  a  cabinet-organ  floated  mourn- 
fully across  the  garden  wall  from  their  next-door  neigh- 
bor's, whose  name  they  did  not  yet  know.  This  night 
they  heard  singing  in  the  distance,  as  if  a  party  of  young 
people  had  gathered.  The  air  and  words  were  lost  in 
space,  but  now  and  then  a  clear,  beautiful  tenor  rose 
high  above  the  chorus  into  the  blue  ether  of  night,  like 
a  soul  slipping  from  its  clay.  For  a  breathless  moment 
the  bell  -  like  notes  would  sustain  themselves  on  em- 
pyrean heights;  and  then,  their  brief  life  over,  sink, 
dying,  to  earth  again. 

Tears  glistened  in  the  eyes  of  both  girls — cool,  sooth- 
ing, restful  tears — heart's-ease.  It  was  a  dream-hour, 

56 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

but  the  odor  of  Campeau's  pipe  around  the  corner, 
where  he  too  sat  dreaming,  gave  it  a  wholesome  touch 
of  earth  and  reality. 

"I  feel  that  we  are  going  to  be  happy  here — happier 
than  we  should  have  been  in  New  Orleans,"  said  Jose- 
phine, softly.  "Though  we  hardly  know  a  soul,  I  feel 
at  home  already.  The  very  houses  look  hospitable  and 
neighborly,  and  kindliness  is  in  the  air.  Nobody  is  very 
rich  here,  apparently,  but  everybody  seems  fairly  pros- 
perous. Campeau  says  there  are  no  really  poor  people 
here — nobody  absolutely  destitute.  A  person  couldn't 
lie  sick  here  and  starve  to  death,  as  they  do  in  the  cities," 
she  added,  with  a  slight  shudder.  "  If  our  blinds  should 
be  shut  for  a  day,  somebody  would  be  around  to  see 
what  the  trouble  was.  I  know  I  have  idealized  the 
town,  yet  I  feel  that  the  reality  will  not  be  disappoint- 
ing. I  never  want  to  see  New  Orleans  again.  I  feel  as 
though  we  had  escaped  from  some  cruel  nightmare. 
Our  beloved  dead  are  the  only  tie.  Sometimes  I  feel 
that  they  are  still  there  —  out  there  in  that  terrible, 
terrible — " 

"Oh,  don't,  dear!"  said  Victoria,  taking  her  sister's 
hand.  "They  are  not  there.  If  they  are  anywhere 
on  earth,  it  is  here  with  us,  in  the  old  home." 

"Watching  to  see  that  we  do  our  work  bravely  and 
well,"  added  Josephine,  returning  the  pressure  of  her 
sister's  hand. 

"And  to  cheer  us  when  we  falter." 

"Only  we  won't  falter — we  won't  start  out  with  that 
in  mind.  We'll  make  a  winning  fight.  A  bare  living 
is  not  much  to  ask  of  the  world.  Some  don't  get  even 
that,  I  know;  but  they  haven't  as  much  to  start  with 
as  you  and  I  —  education  and  musical  training  and 
social  advantages  —  and  blood.  They  were  born  with 
their  faces  in  the  dust." 

In  the  morning,  Victoria  was  too  busy  with  the  house- 

57 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

work  to  dress  and  go  down-town;  and  Josephine,  after 
some  hesitation,  concluded  to  call  on  Mr.  Davenport 
alone.  To  her  relief  she  found  him  unengaged;  not 
even  his  stenographer  was  present. 

"  I  am  going  to  take  you  at  your  word  about  helping 
us  out,"  she  warned  him,  smiling. 

"I  was  only  afraid  you  wouldn't,"  he  returned. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  our  personal  affairs," 
she  began  at  once,  to  have  the  plunge  over.  "My 
sister  and  I  are  under  the  necessity  of  earning  our  living. 
We  have  thought  the  matter  over,  and  have  concluded 
that  the  best  thing  for  us  to  do — and  about  the  only 
thing  we  can  do — is  to  teach  music.  Either  of  us  could 
teach  French,  too,  if  anybody  wanted  it.  Now  do  you 
think  you  could  tell  us  how  to  go  at  it — how  to  make 
a  start  to  get  pupils?  We  know  no  one  here,  and  have 
had  no  experience.  I  don't  suppose  you  have,  either, 
for  that  matter,"  she  added,  half  apologetically. 

"  I  make  it  a  point  to  give  advice  on  all  subjects, 
whether  I  have  had  experience  or  not,"  he  answered, 
with  a  gleam  of  fun,  drawing  a  pad  of  paper  towards 
him.  "I  have  never  taught  music,  I  must  confess, 
but  between  us  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  we  could  work 
out  a  plan.  Now  tell  me  just  what  you  and  your  sister 
can  teach." 

"Victoria  can  instruct  on  the  mandolin,  guitar,  and 
piano;  I  can  teach  vocal  music,  and  either  of  us  can 
teach  French.  I  don't  suppose  there  is  any  demand 
for  the  last  here,  though." 

"  Demand  creates  supply,  according  to  political  econo- 
my, but  I  have  known  supply  to  create  demand.  It 
won't  do  any  harm,  anyhow,  to  let  people  know  that 
they  can  have  French  if  they  want  it."  He  wrote  for 
a  moment  or  two,  and  then  read,  aloud:  "'The  un- 
dersigned will  instruct  a  limited  number  of  pupils  in 
French  and  both  vocal  and  instrumental  music — piano, 

58 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

mandolin,  and  guitar.  For  particulars  call  on  or  ad- 
dress'— and  then  your  names  will  be  signed,"  he  added. 
"You  take  that  notice  down  to  the  Visitor  and  the 
Citizen — I'll  make  you  two  copies — and  tell  them  that 
you  want  it  run  in  the  local  column,  just  once.  That 
will  be  sufficient.  The  papers  come  out  Thursday 
evening,  and  by  Friday  noon  every  man,  woman,  and 
child  in  Tellfair  will  know  that  the  Miss  Priestleys  are 
going  to  take  music  pupils." 

Josephine  blushed,  for  he  evidently  meant  that  the 
announcement  would  make  a  tidy  bit  of  gossip.  Then 
she  read  the  notice  through  for  herself. 

"I  believe  I'd  sooner  leave  that  word  'limited'  out," 
she  suggested,  timidly. 

"Why?" 

"Because  we'll  take  all  the  pupils  we  can  get." 

"Would  you  take  a  thousand?" 

"We  can't  get  a  thousand,"  she  parried,  smiling. 
"It  isn't  quite  honest — do  you  think?"  she  continued, 
more  seriously.  "  It  rather  intimates  that  we  are  teach- 
ing only  for  amusement,  or  something  of  that  kind. 
I  think  it's  best  to  let  the  people  know  in  the  beginning 
that  we  are  teaching  because  we  have  to." 

"Then  I  guess  we  had  better  take  it  out,"  he  an- 
swered, secretly  pleased  at  her  conscientiousness. 
"What  church,  if  any,  do  you  attend,  Miss  Priestley — 
if  I  may  ask?"  he  continued,  remembering  that  they 
had  attended  none  during  their  former  residence  in 
Tellfair. 

"We  attend  none  regularly.  My  mother  was  a 
Catholic,  and  we  used  to  go  with  her  when  we  went  at 
all." 

"I  should  like  to  see  you  and  your  sister  at  the 
Presbyterian  Church  next  Sunday  morning.  As  your 
legal,  not  your  spiritual,  adviser,"  he  added,  at  her 
surprised  look.  "You  can  extend  your  acquaintance 

59 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

more  quickly  that  way  here  than  in  any  other.  The 
church  is  the  social  centre,  in  a  way,  in  these  small 
towns,  and  the  best  people  are  in  it — nominally,  if  not 
actively.  By  attending  church  you  identify  yourself 
with  them  at  once." 

Miss  Priestley  studied  the  paper  in  her  hand  with  a 
doubtful  face. 

"Of  course,  if  you  have  any  religious  scruples  about 
attending  a  Protestant  church,  I  should  not  want  you 
to  go,"  he  added. 

"  I  have  no  such  scruples,"  she  answered,  slowly,  "  but 
I  dislike  exceedingly  to  attend  any  church  under  the 
guise  of  a  worshipper  for  the  purpose  of — well,  of  mak- 
ing money,  to  put  it  honestly." 

She  lifted  her  lustrous,  violet  eyes  gravely,  and  Daven- 
port saw  that  he  had  struck  another  reef  in  his  free- 
and-easy  navigation  of  the  waters  of  her  conscience. 
It  surprised  him  the  more  as  he,  with  the  rest  of  Tell- 
fair,  had  believed  the  no-church  Priestleys  the  last  peo- 
ple in  the  world  to  balk  at  a  peccadillo. 

"There  is  some  difference  between  making  money 
and  making  a  living,"  he  answered,  sympathetically. 
"But  even  if  there  wasn't,  the  path  of  profit  and  the 
path  of  duty  happen  to  be  the  same  in  this  case.  You 
ought  to  get  acquainted  with  the  people.  You  ought 
to  know  them  socially  as  well  as  professionally,  for 
your  sake  and  for  theirs.  In  fact,  in  a  little  town  like 
this,  you  must." 

"We  want  to,"  she  answered,  quickly,  as  if  to  dis- 
claim any  intention  of  maintaining  the  family's  former 
exclusiveness.  "We  are  lonely.  Nobody  has  called  on 
us.  Outside  of  our  household  —  and  it's  very  small 
now — you  are  the  only  person  I  have  spoken  to  since 
we  came.  My  sister  went  down-town  the  other  day 
and  bought  a  cook-book,"  she  continued,  smiling,  "and 
talked  to  the  clerk,  so  that  she  feels  as  if  her  acquaint- 

60 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

ance  were  quite  extended,  compared  with  mine.  We 
can't  be  happy  living  this  way,  and  we  don't  intend 
to  try  it.  But  this  idea  of  using  the  church — really, 
Mr.  Davenport,  it  grates  on  me." 

"Take  my  word  for  it,  it's  a  perfectly  moral  act. 
I'm  a  member  of  the  Board  of  Elders  of  the  Presby- 
terian Church,  and  you  can  rely  on  what  I  say."  His 
eye  may  have  twinkled.  "One  of  the  ends  of  the 
church  is  to  promote  the  material  welfare  of  its  mem- 
bers as  well  as  the  spiritual.  You'll  find  it  in  the  Con- 
fession of  Faith.  A  Presbyterian  aims  to  buy  Presby- 
terian groceries,  wear  Presbyterian  clothes,  and  to  have 
Presbyterian  fillings  put  in  his  teeth.  It's  perfectly 
proper,  too.  Why  shouldn't  his  children  have  Presby- 
terian music  also?" 

"But  the  Methodists  and  Baptists.  We  should  like 
them,  too." 

"You  can  have  them.  Going  to  one  church  won't 
cut  you  off  from  the  others.  You  can't  attend  but 
one,  consistently,  of  course;  and  I  mention  the  Presby- 
terian because  in  this  particular  town  it  happens  to 
be  the  strongest.  It  embraces  more  wealthy  and  in- 
fluential families  than  either  of  the  others.  Think  it 
over,  Miss  Priestley,  and  you  and  your  sister  will  appear 
at  church  next  Sunday  morning,  I  am  sure.  Mean- 
time, print  that  notice,  and  be  sure  that  it  goes  into 
both  papers.  It  will  only  cost  about  five  cents  a  line. 
One  paper  would  give  it  nearly  as  much  publicity  as  the 
two,  but  the  neglected  editor  would  at  once  class  you 
with  the  partisans  of  the  other  paper,  and  it's  worth 
fifteen  or  twenty  cents  to  retain  his  good-will." 

When  Josephine  put  the  question  of  attending  church 
to  Victoria,  the  latter  laughed. 

"  Of  course  we'll  go.  I  see  Mr.  Davenport's  idea.  If 
you  have  a  circus,  you  must  give  a  parade." 

61 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

Yet  she  dressed  for  church,  the  following  Sunday, 
in  a  worshipful  enough  mood,  for  she  wore  for  the 
first  time  a  garment  from  one  of  her  dead  sisters'  ward- 
robes—  a  shirt-waist  of  Honoria's.  In  their  reduced 
condition,  she  and  Josephine  had  concluded  to  wear 
these  clothes  rather  than  pack  them  away  for  moth 
and  rust  to  corrupt. 

She  lifted  the  filmy  fabric  tenderly,  as  if  it  were  sanc- 
tified with  the  spirit  of  the  dead;  and  Josephine,  help- 
ing her  sister  to  dress,  fumbled  blindly  through  her 
tears  at  the  little  gold  safety-pins  as  she  recalled  the 
day  on  which  Honoria  had  worn  this  waist  last — when 
Ze"nobe  Chouinard  had  taken  them  for  a  sail  on  Lake 
Pontchartrain. 

As  they  passed  out  of  the  house,  Campeau  was  pacing 
slowly  back  and  forth  in  the  shade,  his  hands  clasped 
behind  his  back  and  his  chin  lying  upon  his  breast,  in 
the  pensive  attitude  habitual  with  him  of  late.  It  was 
a  sweltering  morning,  but  Campeau  was  superior  to  any 
caprice  of  the  weather,  and  was  buttoned  to  the  throat 
in  his  stuffy  black  clothes.  It  was  far  from  Campeau  to 
censure,  even  in  his  mind,  any  of  his  mistresses'  doings; 
but  as  he  saw  them  on  the  way  to  a  Protestant  sanctuary 
the  rigid  old  Catholic  could  not  refrain  from  crossing 
himself  and  murmuring  a  prayer.  The  girls  detected 
the  motion,  slight  as  it  was,  and  it  added  to  their  seri- 
ousness. 

The  Methodist  and  Baptist  churches,  both  of  which 
they  passed,  were  already  surrounded  by  long  lines 
of  teams  from  the  country,  embracing  every  style  of 
vehicle,  from  ancient  family  "arks"  —  almost  high 
enough  to  have  served  as  veritable  refuges  from  a 
flood — to  shining  modern  surreys.  It  was,  therefore,  a 
little  late  when  they  reached  the  Presbyterian  Church. 

To  make  matters  worse — or  better,  regarding  their 
entrance  as  a  parade — the  usher  led  them  nearly  to 

62 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

the  front.  It  looked  as  if  Davenport  might  have 
given  him  instructions.  Heads  were  turned  on  either 
side  as  the  pretty  pair  rustled  fragrantly  up  the 
aisle.  The  choir,  exercising  an  immemorial  privilege 
of  choirs,  eyed  them  unflinchingly  until  they  sank 
down  in  their  pews  and  devoutly  bowed  their  heads  in 
a  brief,  silent  prayer.  This  last,  merely  a  part  of  their 
ritualistic  training,  created  a  greater  sensation  even 
than  their  appearance,  for  among  the  legends  about  the 
family  was  one  to  the  effect  that  they  were  atheists. 

The  simplicity  of  the  service  was  a  revelation  to  the 
young  women,  accustomed  to  the  pomp  and  ceremonial 
of  a  great  cathedral.  They  were  also  surprised,  and 
a  little  shocked,  at  the  informality  of  the  worshippers 
— their  easy,  not  to  say  lounging,  postures — their  oc- 
casional whisperings,  and  the  freedom  with  which  they 
gazed  about.  But  the  sermon  was  a  pleasure,  especial- 
ly to  the  thoughtful  Josephine.  The  Reverend  Arthur 
Bowman  had  a  more  than  local  reputation  as  thinker 
and  orator,  and  his  words  this  morning  were  truly 
edifying. 

After  the  benediction  the  sisters  lingered  a  moment 
in  their  pew — waiting  for  pupils,  Victoria  irreverently 
whispered.  Then  a  woman,  hardly  older  than  them- 
selves and  dressed  in  admirable  taste,  brushed  into 
the  pew  with  extended  hand. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Bowman,  the  pastor's  wife,"  she  began, 
cordially.  "  You  are  the  Miss  Priestleys,  I  believe.  In- 
deed, I  know  you  are,"  she  added,  charmingly,  "and 
so  does  everybody  else  here.  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you 
out  in  spite  of  the  hot  weather.  Mr.  Bowman  says  this 
weather  is  Satan's  own — it  reduces  the  attendance  so. 
I'm  not  sure  whether  that  is  swearing  or  not.  But 
he  isn't  a  farmer,  you  know,  with  a  hundred  acres  of 
ripening  corn.  And  perhaps  if  he  could  wear  shirt- 
waists"—  she  glanced  with  feminine  fleetness  at  the 

63 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

girls' — "instead  of  that  awful  black  coat,  he  wouldn't 
speak  so  absolutely.  But  it  really  is  discouraging,  when 
he  toils  all  week  to  get  up  a  sermon — Mrs.  Venner,  I 
want  you  to  meet  Miss  Priestley — and  her  sister.  Mr. 
Venner,  also,  and — come  here,  Dorothy — Miss  Ven- 
ner." 

She  briskly  introduced  the  girls  right  and  left,  at 
the  same  time  protecting  them,  front  and  flank,  with 
a  Gatling-gun  fire  of  comment,  interjection,  and  ex- 
planation, which  was  a  marvel  of  rapidity,  precision, 
and  continuity.  Still,  Josephine  managed  to  glance 
around  once  or  twice,  half-expecting  to  see  the  square, 
auburn  head  of  Morris  Davenport.  It  was  not  in 
sight,  but  she  did  see  the  dark,  bushy  head  of  the 
minister  zigzagging  towards  her  as  fast  as  its  bearer 
could  edge  through  the  press,  shaking  hands  on  the  fly, 
as  it  were,  with  those  whom  he  politely  thrust  out  of 
his  way. 

"I  want  to  thank  you  for  that  sermon,  Mr.  Bow- 
man," said  Josephine,  when  the  clergyman  had  been 
presented.  "It's  a  great  pleasure,  not  to  say  comfort, 
to  hear  some  one  in  authority  voice  the  opinions  one 
has  been  cherishing  in  a  half-guilty  secrecy  for  a  long 
time.  I  believe,  with  all  my  heart,  as  you  said  in 
your  sermon,  quoting  from  Emerson,  that  the  farmer 
kneeling  to  weed  his  field  is  making  the  best  prayer 
in  the  world  for  a  good  crop." 

A  subtle  change  of  expression  took  place  on  Mrs. 
Bowman's  face.  She  still  smiled  and  listened  suavely 
— almost  too  suavely — but  Josephine  detected  a  vague, 
remote  uneasiness  in  her  gray  eyes.  It  was  explained 
the  next  moment. 

"It's  an  equal  comfort,  I  assure  you,  Miss  Priestley, 
for  one  in  authority,  as  you  put  it,  to  meet  with  such 
sympathy  from  the  pew — especially  when  it  has  failed 
him  from  a  nearer  source."  He  glanced  at  his  wife 

64 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

playfully,  yet  significantly.  "  Now,  Mrs.  Bowman  thinks 
that  sermon  little  short  of  heresy." 

Mrs.  Bowman  looked  frankly  and  sweetly  into  Jose- 
phine's dark  eyes,  as  if  apologizing  for  this  uncovering 
of  a  little  domestic  difference;  but  she  was  too  consci- 
entious to  gloss  it  over. 

"No;  I  said  I  could  not  agree  with  him — and  I  can't 
— and  that  some  people  might  think  the  sermon  heresy. 
But  it  is  entirely  too  hot  for  a  theological  controversy 
to-day,"  she  exclaimed,  resuming  her  sunny  air.  "The 
real  question  is  whether  we  are  to  have  Miss  Priestley 
and  her  sister  'for  keeps'  or  not — as  I  heard  our  boy 
"Say  the  other  day  at  marbles,  and  which  his  father 
complacently  informed  me  was  a  gambling  term.  Think 
of  it!  But  I  want  you,  in  any  event,  to  promise  to 
come  to  our  lawn  sociable  next  Friday  night,  at  the 
manse,  on  your  street,  about  six  blocks  east.  The 
whole  town  will  be  there  —  Methodists,  Baptists,  and 
Presbyterians  —  and  I  want  you  to  meet  our  young 
people.  We  haven't  many.  They  drift  away  from  the 
village  in  a  terribly  discouraging  fashion  as  soon  as 
they  grow  up  and  get  interesting.  But  I  want  you 
to  meet  what  we  have.  There's  another  terrible  feature 
about  our  tow*n,  which  I  hardly  dare  disclose.  There  are 
about  five  young  women  here  to  one  young  man.  But 
you  are  welcome,  just  the  same,"  she  added,  gayly. 
"That  is,  if  you  promise  to  join  our  A.  F.  Society. 
'A.  F.'  stands  for  Anti-Flattery,  and  the  society's 
avowed  end  is  to  reduce  the  swelled  heads  of  our 
village  beaus  by  withholding  every  grain  of  praise  not 
necessary  to  cajole  them  into  turning  ice-cream  freezers 
at  church  sociables,  and  so  forth.  They  form  here 
what  I  call  the  Tyrannical  Minority,  and  they  need  dis- 
ciplining." 

"Five  to  one!"  exclaimed  Victoria,  waggishly,  on  the 
way  home.  "A  cheerful  prospect  for  two  marriage- 

65 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

able  young  women,  I  must  say.  A  fifth  of  a  man  apiece! 
You  or  I,  by  resigning  in  the  other's  favor,  would  be 
entitled  to  two-fifths.  Diplomacy  might  add  another 
fifth,  coquetry  still  another,  and  I  suppose  a  girl  might, 
by  an  out-and-out  steal,  acquire  the  last  fifth  neces- 
sary to  a  whole.  I'll  resign  forthwith  in  your  favor,  Jo, 
if  you  will  promise  to  hire  me  for  life  to  cook  for  you 
and  your  happy  five-fifths." 

This  chaff  blew  about  Josephine's  ears  unheeded,  al- 
though she  smiled  absent-mindedly. 

"Didn't  you  rather  expect  to  see  Mr.  Davenport 
there  this  morning?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  I  did.  I  supposed  he  would  at  least  want  to 
see  how  the  parade  went  off  when  he  was  managing  it." 

"Drop  that  circus  talk,  Vic,"  said  Josephine,  laugh- 
ing. "It  makes  one  feel  like  a  bareback  rider  or  a 
snake-charmer.  I  saw  his  stenographer  there.  She's 
the  prettiest  girl  I  have  seen  here  so  far." 

"You  will  remember  I  remarked  the  other  day  that 
Mr.  Davenport  showed  excellent  taste  in  the  furnish- 
ings of  his  office,"  observed  Victoria,  slyly.  "She 
looked  rather  insipid,  though,  I  thought." 

"She  didn't  come  up  to  be  introduced,  and  I  rather 
thought  she  avoided  us." 

"So  did  I.  Perhaps  as  a  trusted  lieutenant  of  Mr. 
Davenport's  her  duty  required  her  to  stand  aside  and 
observe  effects." 


VIII 

DAVENPORT  was  not  at  church,  he  explained 
later,  because  he  had  spent  Sunday  with  his  par- 
ents, in  the  country.  The  relations  between  father 
and  son  were  curious  enough.  During  the  day  they 
exchanged  a  hundred  words,  perhaps.  Morris  and  his 
mother  did  all  the  talking,  while  the  silent  little  man 
scarcely  seemed  to  listen.  The  thousand  and  one  proj- 
ects in  which  Morris  was  entangled,  and  which  he  con- 
fided fully  to  his  mother,  apparently  possessed  no  in- 
terest whatever  for  his  father. 

Yet,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Davenport  senior  missed 
not  a  single  word.  Though  he  failed  to  give  his  son 
half  a  dozen  sentences  of  praise  or  advice,  there  were 
moments  when  his  pale -blue  eyes  lit  with  pride  in 
spite  of  himself.  In  truth,  he  was  inordinately  fond 
of  his  son,  in  his  dumb,  pathetic  way;  and  whether 
Morris  strolled  out  to  the  barn  or  the  orchard  or  the 
colt  pasture,  the  father  would  soon  noiselessly  ap- 
pear, as  if  by  chance,  with  a  straw  or  blade  of  grass 
in  his  mouth.  He  might  say  nothing;  he  might,  in- 
deed, excuse  his  presence  by  pottering  around  a  break 
in  the  fence  or  a  loose  gate-hinge.  But  his  son  could 
never  get  far  away  from  him. 

Yet  this  silent,  softly  moving  little  man  was  by  no 
means  a  nonentity.  If  he  had  been,  he  could  hardly 
have  won  the  love  of  Hester  Madison.  He  owned  the 
finest  farm  in  the  county;  he  was  known  and  respect- 
ed for  miles  around,  and  his  beneficent  influence  over 

67 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

township  affairs  was  shown  in  its  roads  and  bridges, 
which  were  models  for  every  other  township  in  the 
county. 

Few  men  had  seen  him  angry,  but  those  who  had 
did  not  care  for  a  second  sight.  He  used  no  tobacco. 
Time  was  when  he  looked  with  disfavor  upon  smokers, 
and,  other  things  being  equal,  preferred  non-smokers 
for  farm-hands.  Until  Morris  grew  up  and  came  back 
from  the  university  the  odor  of  tobacco  was  unknown 
in  the  house.  He  said  nothing,  though,  when  he  saw 
the  first  cigar  in  Morris's  mouth,  and  never  afterwards 
opened  his  lips  on  the  subject. 

One  day  when  Morris  had  accidentally  left  some  ci- 
gars behind  in  the  house,  Mr.  Davenport  appeared  at 
dinner  looking  rather  pale.  His  wife  at  once  detected 
smoke  upon  him,  but  she  had  not  been  his  partner  a 
quarter  of  a  century  in  vain,  and  she  said  nothing — 
about  either  the  smell  of  smoke  or  his  pallor  and  lack  of 
appetite.  But,  when  he  had  gone  out  again,  she  laughed 
until  the  tears  ran  down  her  face.  She  knew  her  hus- 
band had  been  trying  to  emulate  his  darling  son.  But 
the  darling  son  never  heard  of  it. 

Davenport  did  not  return  to  Tellfair  until  Monday 
morning.  Almost  his  first  words  to  Bertha  were,  "Did 
the  Priestley  girls  attend  church  yesterday?"  When 
she  briefly  answered  yes,  he  smiled. 

"I  suppose  Mrs.  Bowman  looked  after  them." 

"She  introduced  them  around,"  she  answered, 
vaguely. 

"Did  you  meet  them?" 

"No."     The  tone  was  a  trifle  emphatic. 

"Why  not?"     His  geniality  abated  the  least. 

"There  were  so  many  that  I  preferred  to  wait  until 
some  other  time,  when  there  would  be  a  chance  of 
their  remembering  me." 

"They  couldn't  have  forgotten  a  member  of  the  firm," 

68 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

he  returned,  pleasantly.    "I'll  introduce  you  myself  the 
next  time  they  are  up." 

He  shortly  left  the  office  and  proceeded  to  the  Con- 
greve  home.  With  his  customary  informality,  he  entered 
without  knocking,  and  walked  through  to  the  kitchen. 
Volley  was  mixing  bread,  her  plump,  white  arms  bare 
to  the  elbows.  She  pushed  a  chair  towards  him  with 
her  foot, 'and  ordered  him  to  sit  down. 

"I  can't  stay  but  a  minute,"  said  he.  "I  want  to 
see  you  on  a  little  business.  I  presume  you  know  the 
Priestley  girls  are  going  to  give  music-lessons." 
_  "I  presume  I  do.  I've  heard  it  from  twenty  differ- 
ent sources,  besides  reading  it  in  the  Visitor  and  the 
Citizen." 

"They  are  clients  of  mine.  I  want  to  help  them  all 
I  can.  I  think  I  see  a  way  of  killing  two  birds  with 
one  stone.  The  idea  came  to  me  yesterday,  out  at 
the  farm.  You  know  how  often  I  have  tried  to  make 
Harvey  take  something  for  the  use  of  his  law-books  in 
jny  office.  I  think  I  see  a  way  of  getting  even  with 
his  stubborn  generosity." 

"If  that  is  one  of  your  birds,  you  had  better  save 
your  stone.  But  go  on." 

"Bertha  ought  to  cultivate  her  voice.  She  has  a 
sweet  soprano,  and  she  can't  afford  to  neglect  it. 
You  can't  stand  the  expense,  I  know;  but  I  can,  and 
I  purpose  to  do  it,  as  part  payment  for  those  books 
But  Harvey  is  to  know  nothing  of  that  feature  of  it. 
and  Bertha  is  to  know  nothing  at  all  about  it.  That 
is,  about  who  pays.  What  do  you  say?" 

Volley  leaned  upon  her  strong  arms  reflectively,  and 
Davenport  wondered  if  she  knew  what  a  picture  she 
made.  He  thought  it  likely. 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  as  loath  as  Harvey  to  take 
pay  for  those  books,  in  any  form,  from  a  man  who 
has  done  as  much  for  us  as  you  have." 

69    " 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Don't  call  it  pay,  then.  Call  it  a  gift  pure  and 
simple.  You  and  I  don't  need  to  stand  on  ceremony." 

"I  should  love  to  have  Bert  take  lessons,"  said  she. 
hesitatingly. 

"  Then  we'll  have  her  take  them,"  said  he,  rising,  with 
his  usual  decision.  "You  can  fix  it  up  with  Harvey." 

"Sit  down — you  don't  often  see  me  at  manual  labor," 
said  she,  driving  her  floury  fists  into  the  lump  of  dough 
with  exaggerated  energy.  "How  many  lessons  a  week 
do  you  want  her  to  take — one  or  two?" 

"Two.  I'll  let  her  off  during  the  day  to  take  them. 
You'll  have  to  go  and  see  Miss  Priestley,  of  course, 
and  make  arrangements.  The  whole  thing  must  be 
done  in  your  name." 

"I  should  insist  on  that — I  want  to  see  the  inside 
of  that  house,"  answered  Volley,  frivolously.  "You 
say  you  prefer  I  should  say  nothing  to  Bert  about  your 
paying  for  the  lessons?" 

"I  don't  prefer — I  insist.  No  quibbling  about  that, 
Volley,"  said  he,  warningly.  "I  make  secrecy  a  con- 
dition of  my  offer." 

"You  needn't  be  so  tragic  about  it,"  said  she,  coolly. 
"What  would  be  the  harm  if  she  did  know?" 

"None,  perhaps.  But  there  is  no  need  to  burden 
her  with  a  sense  of  obligation  to  me.  She  seems  to 
feel  now,  sometimes,  as  if  her  Dosition  in  my  office 
were  a  gift  out  of  hand." 

"It's  the  simple  truth." 

"No,  it  isn't,"  said  he,  earnestly.  "Disabuse  your 
mind  of  that.  She  earns  every  dollar  I  pay  her.  She's 
a  first-class  stenographer,  and  absolutely  trustworthy. 
I  don't  want  her  to  feel  that  the  position  is  a  gift. 
It  hurts  her  independence,  and  harms  her  in  other 
ways." 

Volley  would  have  liked  to  ask  him  what  those 
other  ways  were.  She  had  a  lively  curiosity  about  the 

70 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

relations  between  this  man  and  her  daughter.  But, 
bold  as  she  was,  she  hesitated.  After  he  had  gone, 
she  spent  a  full  five  minutes  in  reflection  on  the  subject 
— a  rather  prolonged  period  for  her.  She  had  some 
reasons  for  regarding  him  as  a  possible  son-in-law,  and 
the  strongest  motives  for  making  him  one.  But  when- 
ever she  had  attempted  to  draw  him  out  she  had 
found  him  as  prickly  as  a  porcupine. 

Her  attempts  to  draw  Bertha  out  had  been  hardly 
more  successful.  Bertha  regarded  her  mother — justly, 
perhaps  —  more  as  an  equal  than  a  superior,  more  as 
ar  sister  than  a  mother.  She  unbosomed  herself  only 
on  occasion,  and  when  she  would  have  done  the  same 
with  a  chum.  Yet  the  older  woman  was  by  far  the 
subtler,  and  she  finally  arrived  at  the  conclusion — 
from  just  such  incidents  as  the  Lincoln  biography — 
that  her  daughter  was  more  or  less  under  Davenport's 
dominion. 

Mrs.  Congreve  resolved  to  go  and  see  the  Priestleys 
the  next  day.  But  she  was  not  to  be  the  girls'  first  call- 
er, for  while  they  were  reading  in  the  study  on  Monday 
afternoon — Victoria  stretched  on  a  Morris  chair,  Jose- 
phine half  lost  in  the  depths  of  a  great,  high -backed 
seat — the  old-fashioned  gong  on  the  front  door  sudden- 
ly clanged  out  harsh  and  loud.  It  was  an  unwonted 
sound  in  the  quiet  house,  for  in  long,  long  years  no  one 
but  stray  agents  and  peddlers  had  rung  the  bell.  Both 
girls  leaped  to  their  feet — Victoria  with  her  hand  upon 
her  heart,  her  hair  tumbled  where  she  had  lain  upon 
it,  and  her  eyes  dark  with  excitement. 

"A  pupil!"  she  cried,  under  her  breath.  "Jo,  go 
to  the  door — I'm  as  weak  as  a  kitten.  If  it's  for  me, 
I  shall  faint." 

"Don't  do  it  yet,"  said  Josephine,  coolly,  although 
her  own  heart  was  thumping  fiercely.  "  It  may  be  the 
water-works  man  with  a  bill — I  saw  a  notice  in  the  pa- 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

per  that  water-rents  were  due.  If  it's  he,  you  may  have 
cause  to  faint.  I  don't  know  how  much  they  charge." 

"Oh,  hurry,  Jo!  —  hurry!  They  might  go  away!" 
broke  in  Victoria,  in  an  agony  of  suspense,  and  pushed 
her  more  deliberate  sister  out  of  the  room.  "And  if 
they  want  me,  tell  them  I'm  sick,  or  talking  to  the 
milkman,  or  any  excuse." 

She  laughed  foolishly  and  shut  herself  in  the  library. 
For  fifteen  minutes  she  fluttered  back  and  forth,  now 
and  then  pausing  with  her  head  in  the  air,  like  an 
alarmed  antelope,  as  if  to  catch  a  word.  She  knew 
that  she  could  have  answered  the  bell  herself,  if  neces- 
sary, without  outward  emotion;  but  there  was  some- 
thing desperately  exciting  about  a  first  pupil  to  a  girl 
who  had  never  earned  a  nickel  in  her  life. 

Josephine  finally  reappeared.  She  was  as  calm  as 
ever,  but  there  was  a  red  spot  on  each  cheek  and  a 
feverish  brightness  in  her  eyes. 

"It  was  a  pupil!"  cried  Victoria,  after  one  quick 
glance,  and  then  swiftly  enclosed  her  sister  in  her  arms. 
Josephine — cool,  queenly  Josephine — smiled  indulgent- 
ly, blinked  rapidly  two  or  three  times,  and  then — yes, 
a  tear  stood  in  each  eye. 

"Yours  or  mine,  honey?"  asked  Victoria. 

"Mine,  if  we  get  her,"  answered  Josephine.  "It's 
not  quite  settled  yet.  Has  it  occurred  to  you,  Vic, 
that  it  would  be  a  convenience  to  our  patrons  if  we 
should  fix  a  price  on  our  lessons?" 

Victoria  fell  back  aghast. 

"What  on  earth  did  you  tell  her?  I  never  thought 
of  that." 

"I  crawled  out  the  best  way  I  could.  I'm  not  cer- 
tain whether  I  lied  or  not,  but  I  think  I  did.  I  told 
her  we  had  hardly  expected  any  applications  so  soon — 
that  was  true  enough — and  that  we  had  not  really  de- 
cided on  our  prices  yet,  but  that  we  should  probably 

72 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

be  governed  by  the  ones  prevailing  here.  What  are  you 
grinning  at?  That  gave  her  a  chance  to  tell  me  what 
they  were." 

"What  are  they?" 

"Seventy-five  cents  for  vocal  lessons, and  about  fifty 
for  instrumental." 

Victoria  emitted  a  low  whistle  from  between  sweetly 
puckered  lips. 

"We  paid  five  dollars!     Who  was  it?" 

"A  Mrs.  Spencer." 

"Presbyterian?"     Her  eyes  gleamed  mischievously. 

"I  don't  know.  We  didn't  get  as  far  as  denomina- 
tional preferences." 

"Didn't  mention  the  parade,  either?" 

Josephine  shrieked  with  laughter  at  this  buffoonery, 
she  felt  so  good  over  the  pupil  in  sight. 

"No." 

"Who  sent  her  here?" 

"Whom  do  you  suppose?" 

"Not  our  lawyer!"  exclaimed  Victoria,  gleefully. 

"Yes,  our  lawyer,"  retorted  Josephine,  drawing  down 
the  corners  of  her  handsome  mouth  in  droll  mimicry. 

"God  bless  him!" 

"So  say  I,"  said  Josephine.  "At  the  same  time 
it  is  well  to  remember  that  he  takes  his  pay  in  coin 
of  the  realm,  not  benedictions,  and  it  behooves  us  to 
earn  a  supply  .of  the  former  without  delay.  I  am  going 
over  to  Mrs.  Bowman's  this  minute,  and  ask  her  about 
prices." 

Mrs.  Bowman — and  Mr.  Bowman  as  well — had  to  con- 
fess her  ignorance  of  'music-teachers'  prices  in  Tellfair. 
But  after  the  trio  had  discussed  the  subject  some  time, 
she  suddenly  exclaimed: 

"Why,  Arthur,  Morris  Davenport  will  know,  of 
course.  How  stupid  of  us!  I'll  ring  him  up.  He's 
like  one  of  our  family,  Miss  Priestley,"  she  explained, 

73 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

halting  on  the  way  to  the  telephone,  "so  it  will  go  no 
farther.  He  knows  everything,  absolutely  everything! 
I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  could  preach  a  better 
sermon  than  Arthur."  She  gave  her  husband  a  saucy 
glance.  "And  if  you  have  him  on  your  side,  you  can 
dispense  with  everybody  else." 

"This  is  certainly  amusing,"  said  Josephine,  laughing 
and  blushing.  She  then  confessed  how  she  had  already 
taken  Davenport  into  her  confidence  about  the  lessons. 
"But  I  did  not  think  to  ask  about  prices." 

"Now  let  me  confess,"  said  Mrs.  Bowman,  briskly, 
returning  a  step  or  two.  "  Morris  told  me  that  you  were 
going  to  give  lessons — though  he  didn't  say  a  word 
about  your  having  been  to  see  him,  the  deceitful  man! 
— and  we  three — Morris,  Arthur,  and  I — are  in  a  little 
conspiracy  to  boom  you.  Not  a  word  of  thanks!  We 
are  perfectly  selfish  in  it.  At  least,  I  am.  You  see, 
there  are  two  musical  factions  in  Tellfair,  one  headed 
by  the  Ladies'  Schubert  Club — peace  to  that  master's 
ashes!  —  and  the  other  by  the  Band.  We  belong  to 
the  Band." 

" She  does,"  interposed  Bowman.  "I  occupy  strictly 
neutral  ground." 

"He  has  to  say  so,  being  a  minister,  or  there  would 
be  a  deficit  in  his  salary  at  the  end  of  the  year,"  re- 
turned his  wife, in  a  breath.  "I  was  going  to  say  that 
the  Band  lacks  a  soprano  soloist  for  their  concerts,  and 
your  coming  here  and  falling  into  our  hands  instead  of 
the  Schubert's  is  nothing  less  than  providential.  Now 
I'll  telephone.  '  But  don't  say  a  word  while  I'm  gone, 
for  I  don't  want  to  miss  anything." 

She  glided  swiftly  away,  and  the  next  instant  the 
telephone-bell  rang  energetically  in  an  adjoining  room. 
She  returned  a  moment  later  with  buoyant  step  and 
beaming  face. 

"Mrs.  Spencer  was  right.  Seventy-five  cents  for  vo- 

74 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

cal,  and  fifty  for  instrumental,  and  whatever  you  can 
get  for  French,  say  fifty  cents  a  lesson,"  she  rattled 
off.  "You  didn't  mention  the  French,  but  he  did, 
and  said  he  thought  some  of  the  Bovees  might  take. 
They  claim  to  be  of  French  descent,  but  probably 
never  heard  a  syllable  of  the  language.  Yet  those 
prices  seem  absurdly  low,  Arthur."  She  paused,  dubi- 
ously. "I  don't  know  what  I  paid  in  Springfield,  but 
I  know  it  was  a  great  deal  more  than  that." 

"  Springfield  and  Tellfair,  my  dear,  are  two  different 
places,"  said  Bowman,  with  that  touch  of  sarcasm  which 
.salted  all  his  speech,  but  was  rarely  offensive.  "Do 
you  happen  to  remember  what  salary  the  Presbyterian 
Church  in  Springfield  paid  your  father?  Just  twice  what 
the  Presbyterian  Church  here  pays  me.  It  is  low,  Miss 
Priestley,  ridiculously  low,  it  must  seem  to  you,  fresh 
from  a  city.  But  everything  else  is  low  here — butter, 
eggs,  meat,  vegetables,  rent,  even  the  consolations  of 
religion,  as  I  just  said." 

"Everything  except  the  people,"  said  his  wife,  with 
a  cheerful  irony  which  Josephine  felt  sure  her  husband 
had  taught  her. 

"Well,  you'll  find  a  number  of  cultured,  whole- 
hearted, interesting  people  here,"  said  Bowman,  con- 
trarily  tacking  off  the  other  way.  "Of  course,  they 
form  a  very  small  minority,  as  they  do  everywhere, 
and  nowhere  more  so  than  in  the  cities.  Take  that 
man  Davenport  as  an  example,  though  he  really  stands 
in  a  class  by  himself,  He's  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
men  I  have  ever  known.  His  vitality  is  something 
amazing.  After  talking  ten  minutes  with  him  I  always 
feel  as  though  I  had  been  charged  by  a  dynamo." 

"Buy  yourself  an  insulator,  Miss  Priestley!"  cut  in 
Mrs.  Bowman. 

"  Fifteen  years  ago  he  was  a  barefooted  farmer's  boy, 
though  by  no  means  poor,  coming  to  town  every 

75 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

morning  in  the  summer-time  with  eggs,  poultry,  and 
vegetables,  and  peddling  them  from  house  to  house, 
and  very  likely  selling  them  for  all  they  were  worth. 
You  must  see  his  father's  farm  some  time.  It's  a 
model  place.  Morris  has  three  farms  of  his  own;  but, 
as  he  rents  them,  they  are  not  kept  up  like  his  father's." 

"But  he  hasn't  earned  all  those  farms  himself  since 
he's  been  out  of  school,  has  he?"  asked  Josephine, 
wondering  how  long  it  would  take  her  to  accumulate 
a  similar  estate  at  seventy-five  cents  a  lesson,  and  live 
meanwhile,  besides. 

"Not  entirely.  He  inherited  some  money  from  an 
aunt.  But  the  way  he  has  turned  it  over  since  is 
amazing,  to  a  preacher,  at  least.  His  law  practice  isn't 
so  large,  I  imagine  —  that  is,  not  lucrative,  though  he 
has  all  he  can  do.  But  he  is  a  born  speculator.  He  is  a 
great  lover  of  horses,  for  instance,  and  is  constantly 
buying  and  selling  them.  Yet  I  fancy  that  his  horses, 
so  far  from  being  an  expensive  luxury,  as  they  would 
be  to  most  men,  actually  make  him  money.  A  trade 
without  a  gain  would  have  no  fascination  for  him, 
no  matter  how  good  the  animal  he  got.  He  has  eight 
or  ten  blooded  horses  on  hand  now." 

"And  not  one  of  them  that  a  woman  can  drive," 
said  Mrs.  Bowman,  in  an  aggrieved  tone.  "  I  believe 
he  buys  that  kind  on  purpose." 

"I  know  he  does,"  said  Bowman,  with  a  malicious 
grin.  "That  is  one  way  of  saying  they  are  good." 

"Of  course  he's  in  politics,"  said  Josephine. 

"Yes,  though  he  doesn't  care  for  office.  He's  too 
busy.  But  he  'makes'  the  men  who  do  care  for  them, 
in  this  county,  at  least,  and  the  present  representative 
in  Congress  from  this  district  owes  his  election  to 
Davenport." 

"Don't  you  suppose  he  would  accept  an  office  like 
that,  if  he  could  get  it?" 

76 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised — for  one  term,  at  least. 
That  would  give  him  enough.  Such  an  office  doesn't 
afford  a  proper  field  for  energies  like  his.  I  don't 
know  whether  he  could  be  elected  or  not.  A  man  of 
his  fearless  nature  has  lots  of  enemies." 

Josephine  was  on  the  point  of  asking  how  a  man 
of  Davenport's  parts  could  be  content  to  remain  in  so 
circumscribed  a  sphere  as  Tellfair,  but  doubted  the 
tact  of  such  a  question  to  one  who  was  also  a  resident 
of  Tellfair,  and  a  professional  man. 

Upon  reflection,  Davenport's  did  not  seem  so  cir- 
cumscribed a  sphere,  after  all.  To  be  the  first  man  in 
the  community;  to  dominate  its  politics,  and  pull 
wires  which  reached  as  far  as  the  national  capitol; 
to  be  growing  rich;  to  be  considered  an  oracle  by  such 
clever  people  as  the  Bowmans  —  these  were  surely 
not  small  things.  She  could  call  to  mind  men  in  New 
Orleans — men  of  high  position,  too — who  had  not  half 
this  outlook;  whose  lives  moved  in  a  much  smaller 
circle  than  Davenport's. 


IX 

ON  the  night  of  the  sociable  the  manse  lawn  was 
gayly  lighted  with  strings  of  Japanese  lanterns  and 
studded  with  little  white  -  clothed  tables.  When  the 
Priestleys  arrived  these  tables  were  full,  and  groups 
stood  waiting  on  every  side.  Evidently  ice  -  cream 
sociables  were  popular  in  Tellfair.  But  so,  in  fact, 
they  learned  later,  was  everything  which  offered  an 
excuse  for  a  social  gathering. 

In  the  centre  of  the  lawn,  under  a  constellation  of 
flaring  torches,  sat  the  Tellfair  Brass  Band,  in  neat, 
dark-blue  uniforms.  At  the  present  moment  the  mem- 
bers had  laid  aside  their  instruments  for  silver  spoons, 
and  the  way  they  balanced  their  plates  of  cake  and 
cream  on  their  laps  indicated  that  they  had  assisted 
before  at  functions  of  this  kind.  Josephine  smiled  as 
she  recalled  Tellfair's  musical  factions,  and  wondered 
if  any  of  the  Schubert  Club  ladies  were  present.  She 
found  that  they  were,  and  without  war-paint,  too. 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Bowman,  flying  by  in  a  bee- 
line  from  the  lawn  to  the  summer  kitchen,  where  the 
freezers  stood,  spied  the  girls.  She  was  flushed  with 
business,  but  calm  as  a  veteran  general  in  battle.  At 
sight  of  the  girls  she  instantly  swerved  from  her  course 
and  bore  down  upon  them  under  full  sail. 

"This  is  providential.  The  band  is  just  cooling  itself 
off  with  cream,  and  is  in  a  beautiful  state  of  mind  to 
be  impressed.  Follow  me!" 

They  followed,  not  quite  clear  as  to  their  guide's 

78 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

designs.  When  she  breezily  presented  them  to  the 
leader  of  the  band,  they  were  a  little  surprised.  But 
when  she  marched  them  down  the  ranks,  past  cornets, 
clarionets,  trombones,  and  saxophones,  never  stopping 
until  she  reached  the  bass  drum,  introducing  them  to 
each,  the  young  women  hardly  knew  whether  to  take 
her  seriously  or  not.  In  their  world,  musicians  at  a 
social  affair  were  usually  paid  functionaries ;  and  though 
they  might  be  thoroughly  respected  for  their  artistic 
accomplishments,  they  had  no  social  value.  They  soon 
learned,  however,  that  with  these  men  music  was 
merely  a  pastime;  and  that  in  daylight  they  were 
lawyers,  doctors,  dentists,  bankers,  and  merchants — 
in  short,  substantial  and  representative  citizens  of 
Tellfair. 

Later  in  the  evening,  after  drifting  away  from  Vic- 
toria and  Mrs.  Bowman,  Josephine  found  herself  in  a 
little  group  whose  nucleus  was  a  hammock.  In  this 
hammock,  stretched  at  full  length,  like  a  queen  in 
the  midst  of  her  ladies  of  the  bedchamber,  lay  a  plump, 
florid-faced  young  woman,  with  lazy,  flirtatious  eyes. 
She  drawled  her  words  and  exchanged  verbal  shots 
with  the  young  men  about  her,  and  occasionally  pro- 
voked them  into  a  little  romp  with  her. 

This  hoidenish  freedom  was  decidedly  distasteful  to 
Josephine.  The  scrappy  conversation  circled  persist- 
ently around  local  affairs,  of  which  she  knew  next  to 
nothing,  and  she  would  have  felt  somewhat  forlorn 
had  she  not  been  diverted  by  a  pretty,  pink  stripling 
of  a  boy,  perhaps  twenty  years  old.  He  had  hung 
around  her  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  was  doing 
his  best  to  amuse  her.  Finally,  with  some  trepidation 
in  his  voice,  he  asked  her  if  she  danced.  Upon  re- 
ceiving her  affirmative,  he  asked  for  her  company  at  a 
Knights  of  Pythias  "party"  to  be  given  the  following 
week.  She  thanked  him  gravely,  but  said  she  could 

79 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

not  go.  She  felt  rather  guilty  at  the  flush  which  over- 
spread his  downy  face,  for  he  evidently  took  her  re- 
fusal as  a  rebuff. 

At  this  moment  she  saw  ploughing  across  the  kalei- 
doscopic lawn,  like  a  man-of-war  among  a  fleet  of 
pleasure  craft,  a  square-shouldered,  deep-chested  figure 
of  medium  height,  in  a  checked  suit.  There  was  no 
mistaking  that  aggressive  motion — it  was  Morris  Daven- 
port. He  was  headed,  apparently,  for  her  group;  and 
she  wondered,  with  a  flutter  of  uncertainty,  whether 
their  business  relations  constituted  a  social  acquaint- 
ance. The  code  was  puzzling,  at  times,  in  Tellfair. 
Her  suspense  was  short,  though,  for  Davenport  brushed 
aside  her  doubts  with  a  mailed  hand,  as  it  were. 

"Mrs.  Bowman  deputed  me  to  take  care  of  you,  Miss 
Priestley,"  he  said,  and  extended  his  hand  to  greet  her. 
It  was  a  square,  aggressive,  determined  hand,  not  easy 
to  overlook.  He  cast  his  sharp  eyes  about  in  a  rather 
critical  manner,  and  added,  in  an  undertone,  "  Is  there 
anybody  here  that  especially  interests  you?" 

She  smiled. 

"I  know  where  there  are  some  that  will.  Right 
through  here,  please.  Have  you  creamed  yet?"  he  ask- 
ed, with  an  ironical  twist  of  the  word. 

She  had  heard  some  of  the  ladies  use  the  word  before 
that  evening,  and  knew  at  whom  he  was  thrusting. 
She  confessed  with  a  laugh  that  she  had  not  "  creamed," 
and  he  led  her  to  a  table  occupied  by  several  couples 
— a  young  doctor  and  his  wife,  as  she  learned,  a  brother 
lawyer  and  his  wife,  and  one  or  two  others.  Daven- 
port had  reserved  two  chairs  by  tilting  them  forward 
— which  a  timid  man  would  not  have  done  until  he 
had  captured  his  partner.  He  was  just  turning  these 
chairs  back,  after  introducing  Josephine,  when  a  voice 
of  exquisite  sweetness  caught  her  ear,  just  back  of 
them. 

80 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"  Morris  Davenport !  Morris  Davenport !  Don't  I  hear 
your  voice?" 

Davenport  instantly  turned,  with  a  pleased  expres- 
sion. 

"Here's  another  friend  that  I  want  you  to  meet  by 
all  means,"  he  murmured  to  Josephine,  and  stepped 
over  to  a  neighboring  table. 

A  tall,  white-haired  woman,  as  straight  as  an  Indian, 
had  arisen,  but  was  still  standing  in  her  place,  close  to 
the  chair,  with  a  slim  hand  resting  on  the  back  of  it, 
as  for  support  —  all  in  a  timid,  halting,  slightly  con- 
fused way.  She  seemed,  too,  to  be  looking  past  Daven- 
port as  he  approached,  rather  than  at  him. 

He  covered  the  hand  on  the  chair  with  his  own, 
and  kissed  her,  like  a  son.  Her  spiritual  face  lit  with  a 
smile  whose  freshness  a  girl  might  have  envied.  She 
turned,  with  an  awkwardness  strange  in  one  so  lithe,  and 
then  Josephine  saw  her  eyes  and  forgot  all  else.  They 
were  large  and  round,  as  black  as  midnight  in  their 
pallid  setting,  with  a  peculiar,  swimming  lustre,  like 
that  of  a  bubble.  They  had  also  a  puzzling  fixity,  a 
way  of  shooting  above  and  beyond  their  object.  But 
it  was  not  until  the  stately  dame  had  sunk  into  her 
chair  again  and  said,  "  Kneel,  Morris,  I  want  to  take 
a  good  look  at  you,"  and  began  to  pass  her  delicate 
finger-tips  over  his  face,  that  Josephine  suspected  the 
truth.  Then  she  knew,  with  a  sharp  stitch  in  her  side, 
that  those  glorious  orbs  were  sightless. 

Lovingly,  lingeringly,  with  a  touch  almost  as  light 
as  wandering  thistle-down,  the  venerable  woman's  fin- 
gers drifted  over  Davenport's  face  from  forehead  to  chin. 
Meantime,  she  smiled  fondly,  like  a  mother. 

"I  haven't  seen  you  for  such  a  long  time,  boy,"  she 

said,  plaintively.     "Why  don't  you  come  to  see  me 

any  more?     Yet  it  seems  only  yesterday  that  a  little, 

freckled,   red -headed,   barefooted    lad    named    Morry 

6  81 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

Davenport  used  to  bring  roasting-ears  to  my  house,  and 
picked  out  the  big  ones  for  me  because  I  couldn't  see, 
and  kept  the  little  ones  for  people  who  could  see.  I 
used  to  ask  God  to  bless  his  little,  honest  soul!  And 
now  he's  a  man,  they  tell  me,  though  I  can't  believe  it, 
making  speeches  in  court  and  driving  fast  horses  and 
is  getting  rich.  Let  me  see  that  brow  again!"  she  said, 
with  pretty  imperiousness.  "  No — not  one  wrinkle  yet. 
And  that  mouth!  A  little  sober,  but  just  as  sweet 
as  when  it  used  to  taste  of  blackberries  and  corn-silk 
cigarettes.  If  I  kiss  it  again,  before  all  these  people, 
shall  you  be  ashamed?" 

"No,  mother,"  he  answered,  and  let  her  press  his 
lips.  Then,  still  kneeling,  he  added,  "  Mother  Shipman, 
there's  some  one  here  I  want  you  to  know — Miss 
Josephine  Priestley." 

"This  side,  daughter,"  said  Mrs.  Shipman,  holding 
out  her  left  hand.  When  she  felt  Josephine's  fingers 
she  added,  "I  have  often  heard  of  you,  and  always  to 
your  honor.  Won't  you  bend  the  knee,  too,  my  dear, 
to  satisfy  a  curious  old  woman?" 

Josephine  knelt  and  instinctively  closed  her  eyes  as 
the  other  laid  her  hands  on  her  face.  It  was  not 
necessary,  for  the  sensitive  finger-tips  barely  grazed 
her  lashes. 

"You  are*  dark,  daughter?  I  knew  it!  I  can  tell 
dark  hair.  And  you  sing,  they  say.  I  see  that,  too. 
Your  throat  is  so  full,  like  a  bird's.  Some  time  I  should 
love  to  have  you  come  and  sing  for  me,  and  bring  your 
sister  with  you.  I  want  to  see  her,  too." 

"She  is  here  to-night,"  said  Morris.  "We'll  hunt 
her  up  for  you  after  a  little." 

"All  right — all  right,"  answered  the  old  lady,  musing- 
ly. After  a  pause  she  added,  thoughtfully  stroking 
Josephine's  thick  hair,  "Oh,  your  hair  is  so  black — so 
black — just  as  mine  used  to  be!  His  isn't  black,  is  it?" 

82 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

laying  her  other  hand  on  Davenport's  head.  "He  is 
Thor  the  Thunderer.  Be  careful,  daughter,  that  those 
fiery  locks  never  burn  you!" 

"You  are  happy  to-night,  mother,"  said  Davenport, 
smiling  across  at  Josephine. 

"Am  I  not  always  happy,  Morris?  Didn't  you  and 
I  agree,  one  summer  day,  long,  long  ago  —  hear  me 
talk,  when  it  was  only  a  day,  an  hour  ago! — didn't  we 
agree  always  to  be  happy,  whether  the  world  smiled 
or  scowled?  Didn't  we  also  agree  that  it  was  not  the 
world,  but  ourselves,  who  scowl?  Yet,  do  you  know," 
she  added,  sinking  her  voice  confidentially,  "there  is  a 
little  rift  within  my  lute  to-night.  I  came  off  without 
locking  my  front  door !  I  had  the  key  right  in  my  hand, 
mind  you,  and  yet  I  didn't  lock  it.  It  doesn't  make 
a  bit  of  difference — who  locks  their  doors  in  Tellfair? 
— but  Stella  has  lived  in  the  city  so  long  that  she 
doesn't  feel  easy  if  we  leave  a  door  unlocked  of  an 
evening.  I  wish,  for  her  sake,  that  it  was  locked." 

"Then  it  shall  be  locked,"  said  Davenport,  rising. 
"My  horse  is  here,  and  it  won't  take  five  minutes." 

"Oh,  will  you,  Morris?"  exclaimed  the  old  gentle- 
woman, leaning  forward  eagerly  and  deftly  extracting 
a  key  from  the  reticule  at  her  belt.  "  You  were  always 
good  to  me,  and  now  I  can  be  perfectly  happy  the  rest 
of  the  evening." 

"If  Miss  Priestley  will  go  along,  she  may  have  the 
honor  of  locking  the  door,"  said  Davenport. 

Josephine  promptly  consented.  As  she  arose  her 
eyes  fell,  by  some  occult  attraction,  upon  the  cold, 
hostile  face  of  a  young  woman  who  had  paused  at 
some  distance  to  watch  the  little  drama  around  Mrs. 
Shipman's  knees.  For  an  instant  the  two  women's 
eyes  met  squarely,  and  then  the  stranger  turned  coolly, 
almost  insolently,  away.  Josephine  had  seen  the  face 
before,  but  it  was  not  until  she  had  puzzled  several  min- 

83 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

utes  over  its  unaccountable  expression  that  she  recalled 
it  as  Davenport's  stenographer's. 

Davenport  led  the  way  to  where  a  colt,  hitched  to  a 
light  road-wagon,  was  digging  a  hole  with  rapid  hoof- 
beats,  as  if  he  decidedly  objected  to  being  tied  to  a 
post.  Josephine  smiled.  Like  master,  like  horse. 

The  dense  banks  of  foliage  on  either  side  threw  the 
streets  into  black  shadow  save  for  a  thin,  broken  line 
of  moonlight  in  the  centre.  Early  as  was  the  hour,  they 
were  almost  as  still  and  deserted  as  a  country  lane. 
The  insect  chorus  of  summer  had  hardly  begun;  the 
rubber-tired  wheels  rolled  noiselessly  along,  and  except 
for  a  faint  creaking  of  the  harness  and  the  horse's 
muffled  footfalls  in  the  dust  there  was  scarcely  a 
sound. 

For  Josephine  it  was  one  of  those  rare,   exquisite 
moments   when   happiness   is   almost   overpowering  — 
when  the  soul,  for  no  apparent  cause,  fairly  reels  with 
joy — when  an  ethereal  peace  hovers  over  us,  like  angels 
invisible. 

"Whenever  I  imagine  myself  a  little  ill-treated  by 
fortune,"  said  Davenport,  in  a  low  tone,  as  if  in  respect 
of  the  silence,  "  I  always  think  of  Mother  Shipman's 
story.  It  never  fails  to  make  me  ashamed  of  myself." 

"Tell  it  to  me,"  said  Josephine. 

"You  must  hear  it  from  her  own  lips  some  time. 
It  will  do  you  good  all  your  life.  You  see  the  kind  of  a 
woman  she  is — nobility  stamped  on  her  face,  her  voice, 
even  her  touch.  Yet  when  she  went  blind,  at  twenty, 
she  was  a  frivolous,  wilful  girl,  according  to  my  grand- 
mother, and  inordinately  fond  of  dress  and  pleasure. 
She  lived  in  New  York  State  then,  in  the  same  town 
with  my  people.  They  all  came  West  together.  Grand- 
mother used  to  tell  the  story  of  how  Milly  Vincent 
(Mrs.  Shipman)  climbed  out  of  a  second-story  window 
one  night  and  went  to  a  dance,  which  she  had  been 

84 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

forbidden  to  attend,  with  a  young  army  officer  who 
happened  to  be  home  on  furlough.  Milly's  mother, 
who  seemed  to  know  her  daughter  well,  had  locked  up 
all  the  girl's  finery  in  order  to  enforce  her  command. 
But  Milly  tiptoed  up  to  the  attic  after  everybody  else 
in  the  house  was  asleep,  and  got  her  grandmother's 
wedding-gown  out  of  an  old  chest.  Doubtless  she  had 
masqueraded  in  it  before,  in  front  of  her  mirror  if  no- 
where else.  She  made  a  great  hit  at  the  ball  in  the 
old-fashioned  costume,  which  everybody  supposed  she 
had  worn  simply  as  an  antic." 

-  "I  can  see  her  audacious  black  eyes  snapping  now," 
murmured  Josephine,  with  a  smile. 

"Well,  when  they  lost  their  snap — were  snuffed  out 
by  paralysis  of  the  optic  nerve — everybody  said  that 
she  would  die,  that  she  would  fret  herself  into  the  grave. 
She  didn't  even  whimper,  so  far  as  the  public  knew; 
but  her  mother,  who  was  half  frightened  by  the  girl's 
unexpected  stoicism,  would  sometimes  steal  up  to  her 
room  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  find  her  crying 
there,  alone.  But  one  night  she  told  her  mother  that 
she  would  never  cry  any  more,  even  when  alone.  She 
will  tell  you  now  that  she  never  did." 

"And  she  married  happily?" 

"Yes;  she  married  a  man  who  worshipped  her  to  the 
day  of  his  death,  and  she  raised  a  family  of  children 
who  are  a  credit  to  herself  and  the  community,  though 
they  all  left  here  long  ago.  Her  daughter  Stella,  whom 
she  mentioned,  came  back  a  few  years  ago,  on  her 
husband's  death,  to  take  care  of  the  old  lady." 

They  were  skirting  the  court  -  house  square.  The 
old  stone  building,  lifting  its  square  roof  above  the 
silvered  tree-tops,  seemed  asleep — asleep  or  dead.  The 
white  columns  of  the  portico  in  front  shone  dimly 
through  the  intervening  greenery  like  the  ruins  of  an 
ancient  temple  in  the  heart  of  a  sacred  grove. 

85 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"How  beautiful  and  peaceful!"  exclaimed  Josephine, 
softly. 

"Yes,"  assented  Davenport.  "Yet  four  weeks  from 
to-day  a  man  will  be  tried  within  those  peaceful  walls 
for  his  life.  And  he  lies  to-night  in  the  jail  in  the 
rear."  As  they  turned  the  corner  he  added,  point- 
ing, "There's  his  cell  —  the  last  one  on  the  second 
floor." 

Josephine  glanced  doubtfully  at  the  barred  window. 
She  saw,  or  fancied  she  saw,  a  pale  face  in  the  gloom, 
and  white,  uplifted  hands  grasping  the  irons.  She  turn- 
ed away  with  a  slight  shudder. 

"Oh,  to  think  that  a  human  being  should  have  to 
be  caged  like  a  wild  beast!"  she  exclaimed. 

"When  he  may  be  innocent,"  added  Davenport. 

She  was  silent  a  moment. 

"I  suppose  that  illustrates  one  of  the  differences  be- 
tween a  man  and  a  woman.  I  hadn't  thought  of  his 
being  innocent.  I  shrank  from  him  as  if  he  were  al- 
ready convicted." 

"I  have  to  defend  him,"  said  Davenport,  as  if  in  ex- 
planation of  his  remark. 

She  started  a  little.  It  brought  the  alleged  murderer 
so  much  closer. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  sleep,  standing  between  a  fellow- 
being  and  death,"  she  said,  solemnly. 

"Judge  and  jury  share  the  responsibility,"  said  he. 
"But  in  this  case  I  suppose  I  do  almost  stand  between 
this  man  and  death.  He  is  charged  with  murdering 
his  employer,  a  farmer  who  lived  ten  miles  east  of  here. 
The  circumstantial  evidence  against  him  is  very  strong, 
and  if  ever  there  was  an  unlikely  prisoner  to  win  a 
jury  with,  it  is  this  one.  He's  a  foreigner — a  Russian. 
He  is  dirty  and  unkempt,  as  repulsive  a  mortal  as  you 
ever  saw,  and  talks  a  most  barbarous  jargon,  which 
he  imagines  is  English." 

86 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Do  you  have  to  go  into  his  cell?"  she  asked,  shrink- 
ingly. 

"Quite  often." 

"Do  you — sit  down?" 

"Not  if  I  can  help  it,  but  sometimes  I  do  in  self- 
defence.  He  has  a  way  of  dropping  to  his  knees  and 
clutching  me  around  the  legs  and  begging  me  to  save 
his  life." 

"Oh,  don't,  please  don't,  Mr.  Davenport!"  she  begged, 
with  a  shudder.  "Let's  not  talk  about  it  any  more, 
or  I  shall  dream  about  him  to-night.  Only  I  don't  un- 
derstand how  you  can  have  a  moment's  peace  with 
such  a  burden  on  your  shoulders.  One  little  slip  on 
your  part  may  cost  that  poor  wretch  his  life." 

"Yes,  only  we  lawyers  don't  look  at  it  quite  so 
seriously.  As  I  said,  judge  and  jury  share  our  re- 
sponsibility— and  the  higher  courts,  and  the  governor 
himself,  who  has  the  right  to  pardon.  Therefore,  if  a 
man  hangs,  with  all  these  safeguards  about  his  liberty, 
we  take  it  for  granted  that  he  ought  to  hang,  and  that 
we  could  not  have  saved  his  life  in  any  event." 

Mother  Shipman's  stately  mansion  was  half  a  century 
old,  and  was  a  relic  of  the  days  when  all  Tellfair  and 
many  thousand  acres  besides  were  owned  by  three  or 
four  families.  It  stood  high  above  the  street  on  a 
natural  elevation  which  ended  abruptly  at  the  side- 
walk in  an  eight-foot  embankment. 

"That's  a  long  flight  of  steps  to  climb,"  said  Daven- 
port, as  they  drew  up  to  the  horse-block.  "I  suppose 
you  will  not  object  to  locking  the  door  by  proxy." 

He  handed  her  the  lines  and  had  crossed  the  side- 
walk when  she  halted  him. 

"Mr.  Davenport,  I  believe  I  should  prefer  to  do  it 
myself."  As  he  turned,  laughing,  and  helped  her  down, 
she  added,  "  You  said,  the  other  day,  in  speaking  of  your 
clients,  that  nearly  everything  is  of  importance  to  some- 

87 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

body.  I  believe  it  would  please  Mrs.  Shipman  to  know 
that  I  had  locked  that  door  personally,  as  you  promised 
her  I  should." 

"  I  agree  with  you,"  he  answered. 

She  climbed  the  steps  and  disappeared  in  the  dark 
recess  of  the  rose-smothered  porch.  A  moment  later, 
though,  her  voice  floated  back  in  perplexity.  "Mr. 
Davenport,  I  can't  do  it,  after  all.  The  key  seems  to 
stick." 

Davenport  looped  a  line  over  the  hitching-post  and 
ran  up  the  long  flight  of  steps  in  a  manner  to  make  an 
onlooker  with  a  weak  heart  gasp. 

"Why,  it's  already  locked!"  he  said,  twisting  the  key 
back  and  forth. 

"7  didn't  do  it!"  declared  Josephine.  "The  key 
wouldn't  budge  for  me." 

"Then  Mother  Shipman  locked  it  herself." 

"  And  forgot  it !  The  dear  old  soul!  We  must  never 
tell." 


X 

WHEN  Bertha  Congreve  came  upon  Davenport  and 
Josephine  Priestley  kneeling  together  before  old 
Mrs.  Shipman,  jealousy  gripped  her  heart  like  an  iron 
hand.  Tingling  with  fury,  she  recklessly  showed  Miss 
Priestley  her  insolent  face,  and  then  turned  haughtily 
away.  But  she  at  once  stole  to  the  rear  of  the  uncon- 
scious couple,  and  from  that  moment,  with  a  heart  full 
of  unholy  emotions,  watched  them  unblushingly.  When 
they  rode  off  in  Davenport's  runabout,  her  anger  and 
misery  were  complete. 

Such  a  conjurer  is  jealousy!  All  the  sweets  of  the 
evening  had  turned  to  gall.  The  people  around  her, 
the  music  and  talk  and  laughter,  were  hateful  to  her 
eyes  and  ears.  Yet  she  would  not  go  home.  The  mere 
thought  of  her  room  was  repulsive.  In  her  present 
mood  she  knew  it  would  prove  a  torture-chamber.  The 
reality  was  preferable  to  her  heated  imaginings. 

When  Davenport  and  Josephine  returned,  in  a  sur- 
prisingly short  time,  she  felt  relieved,  and  a  little 
ashamed  of  her  hasty  conclusions.  Nevertheless,  during 
the  rest  of  the  evening  her  eyes  never  left  them.  She 
skulked  as  near  as  she  dared,  straining  her  ears  for 
a  chance  word,  and  watching  every  smile,  which  the 
demon  jealousy  twisted  into  significance.  Davenport 
was  not  with  Josephine  all  the  time,  by  any  means,  but 
they  seemed  to  be  continually  meeting,  always  with 
something  to  say,  always  with  an  excuse  for  tarrying. 

Bertha  knew  she  was  doing  wrong  in  this  espionage, 

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The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

and  felt  her  self-respect  oozing  away;  but,  turning  a  deaf 
ear  to  conscience,  she  sullenly  continued  her  pursuit  un- 
til, with  a  guilty  start,  she  heard  Davenport's  voice  at 
her  elbow.  At  the  moment  she  was  watching  Miss 
Priestley  instead  of  him. 

"I've  been  scouring  the  grounds  for  you,"  said  he, 
cheerfully.  "I  want  you  to  meet  Miss  Priestley  and 
her  sister." 

Bertha  hated  his  cheerfulness  at  that  moment.  It 
seemed  borrowed  from  Miss  Priestley. 

"I  don't  want  to  meet  them,"  she  answered,  bluntly. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I  don't." 

"That  is  no  reason  at  all.  What  has  put  such  non- 
sense into  your  head?" 

"Thank  you  for  your  compliment,"  said  she,  ironi- 
cally. 

Davenport  scanned  her  sharply  and  unfavorably.  A 
suspicion  of  the  truth  crossed  his  mind,  but  he  was  loath 
to  believe  her  guilty  of  a  jealousy  which  was  nothing 
less  than  insane. 

"If  it  isn't  nonsense,  what  is  it?'"  he  asked,  with  a 
mildness  he  was  far  from  feeling. 

"  I  don't  feel  like  it.  I  don't  feel  like  talking  to  a 
stranger  just  now,"  said  she,  lamely.  "I  have  been 
out  of  sorts  all  evening." 

"What  shall  I  say  to  Miss  Priestley?" 

"Say  what  you  please!"  she  blazed  out,  in  uncon- 
trollable wrath.  "You  have  had  no  difficulty  all  even- 
ing in  finding  something  to  say  to  her." 

The  cat  was  out  of  the  bag  in  a  single  bound.  Daven- 
port's first  impulse  was  to  turn  on  his  heel;  but  his  self- 
control  was  good,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  suffering. 
Moreover,  he  knew  that  he  had  been  very  attentive  to 
Josephine.  Possibly  he  had  neglected  Bertha. 

"  I  won't  tell  her  anything,"  he  answered,  quietly.  "  I 

90 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

won't  go  back  to  her.  She  may  think  it  a  little  strange, 
but  she'll  never  divine  the  truth — it's  too  grotesque. 
We'll  go  home  now,  if  you  say  so."  She  had  come  with 
him. 

Bertha  assented  silently,  and  they  slipped  away  to  his 
horse.  She  did  not  live  three  blocks  away,  but  Daven- 
port always  had  a  horse  about.  He  did  not  take  her 
directly  home,  but  drove  out  into  the  country  a  little 
way,  between  the  sleeping  fields.  Why,  he  could  not 
have  said,  for  he  was  in  no  mood  to  protract  a  ride  with 
her  just  then.  Perhaps  he  desired  time  to  make  peace. 
"  No  word  of  love  had  ever  passed  his  lips  to  her,  no 
overt  act  had  implied  it.  Yet  a  situation  had  grown  up 
which  vaguely  disturbed  him  at  times.  Bertha  expect- 
ed him  to  call  with  a  certain  regularity.  If  an  enter- 
tainment were  on,  she  looked  for  his  company  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course.  At  social  affairs  they  were  paired  off  as 
naturally  as  if  tagged  with  duplicate  numbers.  Other 
young  men  avoided  marked  attentions  to  Bertha;  and 
Davenport,  through  sheer  indifference,  paid  little  atten- 
tion to  other  young  women. 

This  situation  sprang  in  part  from  Bertha's  position  in 
his  office,  in  part  from  his  intimacy  with  the  family,  and 
in  part,  he  had.  to  admit,  from  weaknesses  like  the  one 
he  was  guilty  of  at  this  moment — driving  her  around  to 
humor  her  when  he  felt  like  taking  her  straight  home, 
without  ceremony.  He  palliated  his  weakness  with  the 
thought  that  he  was  moved  by  kindness — which  was 
true;  yet  he  knew  that  in  this  direction  lay  danger. 

He  said  something  about  the  beautiful  night — which 
had  lost  all  its  beauty  for  him.  Bertha  neither  an- 
swered nor  looked  up.  Next  he  said  something  about 
the  sociable.  She  was  still  silent.  To  force  her  to  speak 
he  asked  about  some  office  work.  She  answered  with 
monosyllabic  brevity.  After  that  he  talked  at  random, 
intent  only  to  avoid  the  subject  in  both  their  minds.  She 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

made  no  attempt  to  bring  him  to  it,  but  when  he  soon 
faced  his  horse  homeward  she  gave  him  a  steady,  frigid 
look,  which  he  felt  without  turning.  It  plainly  said  that 
she  understood  his  anxiety  to  leave  her. 

She  did  not  speak  until  nearly  home;  then  she  said, 
suddenly,  and  with  considerable  feeling :  "  I  am  sorry  for 
what  has  happened  to-night.  I  feel  that  I  have  acted 
beneath  myself,  and  that  I  have  forfeited  your  respect. 
I  was  so  rude  to  Miss  Priestley  once  this  evening,  and 
she  will  think  it  very  strange  that  you  did  not  bring  me 
back  to  be  introduced."  She  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

"How  were  you  rude  to  Miss  Priestley?"  he  asked. 

She  told  him,  and  he  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Don't  think  any  more  about  it,"  said  he,  finally. 
"Probably  she  won't,  and  I  know  I  sha'n't." 

"  Oh  yes,  you  will,"  she  said,  instantly.  "  Those 
things  are  not  forgotten  so  readily.  And  I  shouldn't 
care  much  for  a  man  who  could  forget  them  easily." 

He  helped  her  down,  she  gave  him  a  brief  good-night, 
and  passed  swiftly  into  the  house. 

Her  frank  repentance  had  rather  touched  him.  But 
at  the  same  moment  his  mind  reverted  to  the  scene  at 
the  sociable.  Boundless  possibilities  of  misery  were 
locked  up  in  a  temperament  like  Bertha's,  he  reflected. 
Like  an  evil  genie  in  a  leaden  casket,  they  might  never 
escape.  But  woe  to  the  man  who  loosed  them! 


XI 

HARVEY  CONGREVE,  anxious  to  give  Bertha 
every  advantage,  consented,  reluctantly,  to  her 
taking  lessons  at  Davenport's  expense.  He  also  stipu- 
lated secrecy  as  to  Davenport's  agency.  Mrs.  Congreve 
'broached  the  subject  to  her  daughter  the  morning  after 
the  sociable.  Bertha  had  forgiven  Miss  Priestley  by 
this  time,  but  she  was  by  no  means  ready  to  court  her 
friendship.  The  thought  of  taking  instruction  from  her 
was  distasteful.  Indeed,  she  could  not  even  think  of 
meeting  her  without  a  flush  of  shame. 

"We  can't  afford  it,"  she  answered  at  once.  They 
were  clearing  the  breakfast-table  at  the  time. 

"  We  will  afford  it,"  said  Volley,  generously.  "  It  will 
be  money  well  spent  in  the  long  run.  A  girl  can't  have 
too  many  accomplishments  nowadays.  Once,  if  she 
could  cook  and  sew,  she  was  all  right;  but  that  day  is 
past." 

Bertha  gathered  up  the  knives  and  forks  thoughtfully. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  care  to  take  lessons,"  she  an- 
swered, finally. 

"Why  don't  you?"  asked  Volley,  surprised. 

"I  haven't  time,  for  one  thing." 

"Bosh!  You  won't  have  to  practise  more  than  an 
hour  a  day,  if  that,  and  Morris  will  let  you  off  twice  a 
week  to  take  your  lesson." 

"Twice  a  week!"  exclaimed  Bertha.  "Mamma,  you 
know  we  can't  afford  two  lessons  a  week,  even  if  we  can 
one," 

93 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"  It  will  be  just  as  cheap  in  the  end.  You  won't  have 
to  take  them  so  long,"  replied  the  ready  Volley. 

"How  do  you  know  Morris  will  let  me  off?" 

"He  said  so." 

"When?" 

"When  we  were  talking  it  over  the  other  day." 

"  How  did  you  happen  to  be  talking  it  over  with  him?" 

"How  do  we  happen  to  talk  everything  over  with 
him?"  retorted  Volley. 

"What  else  did  he  say? 

"  He  said  that  you  had  a  beautiful  soprano  voice  that 
ought  to  be  cultivated,  and  that  he  thought  Miss  Priest- 
ley would  prove  a  capital  teacher." 

The  addition  about  Miss  Priestley  was  unfortunate, 
and  toppled  the  compliment  over. 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  he  knows  about  her 
teaching,"  returned  Bertha,  caustically. 

"  I  don't  think  she  is  a  woman  to  pretend  to  a  knowl- 
edge she  doesn't  possess,"  said  Volley,  virtuously. 

"What  do  you  know  about  her?"  retorted  Bertha, 
with  a  short,  derisive  laugh. 

"  I  had  a  talk  with  her  about  prices  and  other  things, 
and  I  profess  to  be  something  of  a  judge  of  human 
nature." 

"You  were  quiet  enough  about  your  talk." 

"  I  didn't  want  to  say  anything  until  I  knew  what  we 
should  do.  Harvey  and  I  did  not  decide  until  last  night 
to  let  you  take  lessons."  It  was  certainly  true  that 
Harvey  had  not. 

Bertha  was  silent  again,  and  her  mother  judiciously 
bided  her  time. 

"It's  very  good  of  you  and  papa,  but  I'd  rather  not 
take  them  just  now.  Maybe  I  shall  in  the  fall." 

"Very  well,"  answered  Volley,  stiffly.  "You  are  the 
judge.  But  I'll  tell  you  this — I  shouldn't  have  thrown 
away  such  a  chance  when  7  was  a  girl" 

94 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

Bertha  did  not  answer,  but  before  she  left  the  house 
she  stepped  into  her  father's  study. 

"Papa,  I  am  ever  so  grateful  to  you  for  offering  to 
give  me  music  lessons,  because  I  know  what  sacrifices 
it  would  cost  you.  But  if  it  won't  hurt  your  feelings, 
I'd  rather  not  begin  just  now.  I'm  very  busy  in  the 
office,  and  the  hot  weather  is  coming  on,  and  —  I'd 
sooner  not  begin,  if  you  don't  care." 

The  shoe  of  dissimulation  was  already  pinching  Har- 
vey's tender  toes,  just  as  he  had  foreseen  it  would.  He 
therefore,  unlike  Volley,  tried  to  slip  it  off. 

"That's  all  right,  my  dear.  We  want  you  to  do  just 
as  you  please  about  it.  And  don't  emphasize  our  sacri- 
fices too  much — not  as  long  as  your  wages  go  into  the 
family  exchequer." 

Volley  renewed  her  attack  that  night,  and  after  going 
over  her  arguments  of  the  morning,  and  several  others 
besides,  she  added,  casually,  as  if  it  were  an  after- 
thought : 

"One  reason  why  I  wanted  you  to  take  lessons  was 
because  Morris  suggested  it.  He  has  been  our  friend 
through  thick  and  thin.  All  the  favors  have  come  from 
his  side.  I  know  it  would  please  him  for  you  to  do  it. 
I  would  like  to  make  some  return  in  that  way,  little  as 
it  is." 

"  I  don't  see  how  that  would  be  any  return,"  an- 
swered Bertha. 

"Well,  it  would  round  you  off,  give  you  an  extra  ac- 
complishment, fit  you  better  for  society." 

"But  what's  that  to  him?" 

"Don't  you  see  how  it  could  be  something  to  him — 
possibly — some  day — under  certain  circumstances?" 

It  does  not  take  much,  at  times,  to  send  a  girl's 
thoughts  marriageward — just  a  velvety  tone,  a  droop- 
ing of  the  lids,  coupled  with  an  innocent  word  or  two. 
Bertha  started  a  little,  glanced  at  her  mother's  face,  and 

95 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

then  her  pure,  white  skin  was  suffused  with  blood.  She 
said  nothing — indeed,  could  not — and  even  the  daring 
mother  ventured  no  farther  along  that  sacredly  private 
path.  But  she  added,  with  the  same  subtle  suavity : 

"I  think  it  would  please  Morris,  too,  because  the 
Priestleys  are  clients  of  his." 

Again  she  overstepped.  The  revulsion  in  Bertha  was 
instantaneous. 

"That's  the  whole  secret  of  his  solicitude  for  me," 
she  burst  out,  scornfully. 

Volley  eyed  her  daughter  with  complacent,  almost 
contemptuous  superiority. 

"I  am  surprised,"  was  all  she  said,  but  it  conveyed 
volumes. 

"I  know  Morris  about  as  well  as  you  do,  mamma — 
perhaps  a  little  better,"  answered  Bertha,  in  a  voice 
trembling  with  resentment,  "and  I'll  not  be  his  tool 
for  you  or  anybody  else." 

Volley  gave  a  short,  scornful  laugh;  then,  with  a 
shifty,  dishonest  gleam  in  her  eyes,  indicative  of  a  dar- 
ing resolve,  she  said: 

"Just  to  show  you  that  you  don't  know  what  you 
say,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something.  But  I  want  your 
word  first  that  you  will  keep  it  to  yourself.  I  don't 
want  you  to  tell  even  Harvey  that  you  know  it." 

Bertha's  silence  gave  consent,  and  her  mother  added, 
swiftly,  "Morris  offered  to  pay  for  your  lessons  him- 
self!" 

Bertha  heard  the  intelligence  without  outward  emo- 
tion. She  was  yet  suspicious. 

"Well,  what  have  you  to  say?"  demanded  Volley. 

"I  am  grateful,  of  course.  But  I  still  believe  he 
wants  to  favor  Miss  Priestley  as  much  as  he  does  me." 

This  was  too  much  for  Volley. 

"Bert,  you  know  as  much  about  a  man  as  a  new- 
born babe  does,"  she  exclaimed,  wrathfully.  "And  you 

96 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

can  handle  one  just  about  as  well.  You  will  know  more 
before  you  are  as  old  as  I  am.  You  can  do  just  as  you 
please  about  this  business,  now.  If  you  want  to  let  a 
little  petty  jealousy — it's  nothing  else — cut  you  off.  from 
a  chance  to  improve  yourself,  and  pose  as  an  ingrate,  all 
right.  I  sha'n't  say  another  word.  It  is  you,  not  I, 
who  will  suffer." 

"Oh,  I  intend  to  accept  his  offer,"  said  Bertha,  in  a 
hard  little  voice. 

"  Do  just  as  you  please,"  repeated  Volley,  and  left  the 
room. 

But  she  knew  the  battle  was  won.  That  last  big 
gun  had  done  the  work.  The  discharge  had  blackened 
her  a  little,  for  she  recognized  the  betrayal  of  Daven- 
port's trust  as  an  ugly  thing.  But  she  assured  her  con- 
science that  it  was  suffering  in  a  good  cause. 

The  report  of  that  same  big  gun  was  destined  to  be 
heard  far  beyond  the  battle-field,  and  to  come  rolling 
back  in  echoes  long  after  it  seemed  to  have  been  lost  in 
space.  For  the  secret  proved  an  embarrassing  posses- 
sion to  Bertha.  It  practically  barred  conversation  with 
her  father  about  her  lessons,  and  also  with  Davenport. 
When  either  her  father  or  Morris  chanced  to  touch  on 
the  subject,  she  at  once  became  uneasy,  until  at  last  the 
long-coveted  lessons  promised  to  prove  little  more  than 
a  humiliation  and  a  corrupter  of  her  integrity. 

As  an  instance,  although  the  connection  may  be  a 
little  difficult  to  see,  Davenport  had  dictated  a  letter 
to  a  law  firm  in  Peoria,  asking  for  certain  documents  to 
be  offered  as  evidence  in  an  impending  suit.  As  the 
day  for  the  trial  drew  near  and  no  documents  came  to 
hand,  he  grew  restless;  but  thinking  each  day  that  the 
next  mail  must  surely  bring  them,  he  deferred  any 
further  action  in  the  matter. 

One  morning,  while  dusting  her  desk,  before  Daven- 
port had  appeared,  Bertha  uncovered  a  letter  stamped, 
7  97 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

sealed,  and  addressed,  ready  for  the  post-office.  It  was 
the  letter  to  Peoria.  For  a  moment  her  heart  stood 
still.  The  uncancelled,  bright-red  stamp  stood  out  like 
an  accusing  spot  of  blood,  coloring  the  visions  of  dis- 
aster which  instantaneously  swept  through  her  mind. 

At  the  same  moment  she  heard  Davenport's  step 
on  the  stairs.  Time  was  when  she  would  have  thrown 
herself  unhesitatingly  on  his  generosity  and  confessed 
her  oversight;  but  of  late,  since  the  music  matter,  a 
barrier  had  reared  itself  between  them.  Seized  with  a 
guilty  panic,  therefore,  she  crushed  the  letter  into  her 
bosom,  and  awaited  his  coming,  panting. 

"Have  those  papers  come?"  were  his  first  words. 

"No,"  she  answered,  unsteadily. 

He  did  not  look  at  her,  fortunately,  after  the  first 
glance,  but,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  frown- 
ing eyes  on  the  floor,  entered  the  inner  office.  Bertha 
sat  outside  in  an  agony  of  doubt  and  remorse.  He,  her 
trusting  employer,  was  waiting  anxiously  for  an  answer 
to  a  letter  which  lay  in  her  bosom.  As  the  precious  mo- 
ments slipped  by,  and  her  burden  of  guilt  grew  heavier, 
it  seemed  as  if  she  must  cry  out  under  the  cruel  pain. 
Yet  it  seemed  physically  impossible  for  her  to  arise  and 
go  into  the  other  room  and  acknowledge  her  guilt.  If 
she  had  only  told  him  when  he  first  came  in!  Then  it 
would  have  been  only  to  confess  an  oversight;  now  it 
would  be  to  confess  a  lie  as  well. 

"Bertha,"  said  Davenport,  re-entering  the  office,  "I 
think  we  had  better  telegraph  for  those  papers.  What 
do  you  say?  My  letter  may  possibly  have  gone  astray." 

"I  would  do  it,"  said  she,  almost  eagerly.  "It  can't 
do  any  harm,  and  I  wouldn't  take  any  further  chances." 

"I  have  already  taken  a  big  one,  for,  if  they  haven't 
started  the  papers,  I  doubt  if  they  can  get  them  here 
in  time  now.  If  it  comes  to  the  worst,  I'll  have  a 
certified  copy  made  by  telephone.  It  will  cost  money, 

98 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

and  old  Horton  might  refuse  to  accept  such  a  copy  as 
evidence,  but  it's  the  best  we  can  do  if  the  others 
fail." 

He  left  for  the  telegraph -office.  Bertha  felt  easier 
now  that  there  was  a  prospect  of  averting  the  con- 
sequences of  her  mistake.  But  she  soon  realized  that 
the  arrival  of  the  papers  had  nothing  to  do  with  her 
case,  vital  as  it  was  to  Davenport's.  All  the  rest  of  the 
day,  and  far  into  the  night,  her  guilty  secret  charged 
back  and  forth  through  her  conscience  like  a  loose  gun- 
carriage  on  a  pitching  man-of-war,  wrecking  all  in  its 
path  and  threatening  the  final  destruction  of  the  ship 
itself. 

Wan  from  loss  of  sleep  and  weary  of  the  conflict 
within,  she  surrendered  the  next  morning,  and  entered 
Davenport's  private  room  with  a  bloodless  face. 

"Morris,  I  have  something  to  tell  you.  I — I  found 
that  letter  to  Peoria  on  my  desk  yesterday  morning. 
It  had  got  covered  up  in  some  way.  I — I  am  terribly 
sorry." 

Davenport,  puzzled  by  her  excessive  emotion,  looked 
at  her  thoughtfully  for  a  moment. 

"You  found  it  yesterday  morning?" 

She  nodded  with  twitching  lips  and  began  to  cry. 
His  question  was  evidently  to  make  sure  that  she  had 
been  deceiving  him  for  twenty-four  hours. 

"I  am  sorry  you  didn't  tell  me  sooner,"  he  said, 
gravely  and  kindly.  "  I  should  have  made  my  tele- 
gram more  explicit  yesterday.  You  have  evidently 
been  suffering  over  this.  I  am  sorry  that  fear  of  my 
displeasure  should  have  driven  you  to  deception.  I 
don't  want  you  to  feel  that  way  towards  me.  We  all 
make  mistakes.  We  can't  help  it.  It  is  only  when 
we  attempt  to  cover  them  up  that  we  are  doing  some- 
thing we  can  help,  and  something  really  deserving  cen- 
sure." 

99 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"  Can  you  forgive  me — and  trust  me  again?"  she  ask- 
ed, thickly,  through  tears  and  handkerchief. 

"Yes." 

"If  I  could  only  tell  you  how  I  have  suffered — how 
guilty  I  have  felt!  I  have  scarcely  eaten  since  yester- 
day morning,  and  I  couldn't  sleep  last  night." 

"I  know  what  a  guilty  conscience  is.  We  all  do. 
You  are  not  the  first  to  suffer  from  it,  so  don't  condemn 
yourself  too  severely.  If  it  teaches  you  never  to  yield 
again  to  deception,  the  lesson  is  cheap." 

"I  never  will!"  said  she,  fervently. 

And  she  certainly  meant  it. 


XII 

JOSEPHINE  found  Bertha  an  interesting  pupil.  Not 
on  account  of  her  voice,  though.  This  was  a  thin, 
sweet,  lyric  soprano,  fine  spun  as  a  thread  of  gos- 
samer, floating  out  on  the  air  with  the  tremulous  tenuity 
and  spirituality  of  a  vesper-sparrow's  song.  It  was,  in 
fact,  a  voice  for  the  evening  hour,  when  the  strife  of  day 
is  hushed  and  baby  lids  begin  to  droop. 

But  there  was  no  promise  in  such  a  voice  from  a 
teacher's  point  of  view.  It  could  never  be  developed  so 
as  to  fill  a  public  building  of  any  size.  Nor  was  there 
any  special  promise  in  the  girl  herself  that  Josephine 
could  see.  She  seemed  to  be  not  only  cold,  but  also 
shallow.  Physically  she  was  as  delicate  as  a  lily,  but 
she  at  times  betrayed  a  moral  coarseness  which  fairly 
shocked  Josephine.  Yet  she  also  had  a  way  of  exhibit- 
ing the  most  unexpected  virtues,  in  a  most  unexpected 
way;  and  it  was  this  trait  which  interested  Josephine 
and  kept  her  constantly  revising  her  estimate  of  the  girl's 
character. 

She  did  not  like  Bertha  at  first,  and  she  suspected 
that  this  feeling  was  reciprocated.  Yet  in  time  the  edge 
of  this  dislike  wore  away  in  the  teacher;  and  about  the 
same  time  she  discovered,  naturally  enough,  a  similar 
change  in  her  pupil.  In  fact,  she  believed  that  Bertha 
was  beginning  to  admire  her  a  little.  This  admiration 
was  manifested  in  a  number  of  ways,  but  primarily  in 
Bertha's  copying  her  teacher's  manner,  style,  and  even 
dress. 

101 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

Josephine  occasionally  wore  her  hair,  especially  about 
the  house,  in  a  heavy  ball  upon  the  back  of  her  neck. 
With  a  low-cut  waist  the  glossy  black  knot  stood  out  on 
the  white,  velvety  slope  like  a  fluted  sphere  of  ebony. 
In  another  woman  the  effect  might  have  been  mere 
amorousness;  but  in  Josephine  the  coiffure,  seemingly 
by  its  weight,  gave  her  strong,  square  head  a  Juno  poise 
which  was  truly  admirable — as  the  young  lady  herself 
doubtless  suspected. 

Bertha  adopted  this  hair-dressing  cautiously  and  by 
degrees,  but  at  last  she  too  had  a  full-fledged  ball  upon 
the  back  of  her  slim,  arched  neck.  Unlike  her  model, 
though,  she  wore  it  everywhere — in  the  office,  on  the 
street,  and  at  church.  But  the  last  place  to  which 
she  introduced  it  was  Josephine's  music -room.  Her 
hair  was  hardly  thick  enough  nor  of  the  right  color 
to  give  the  statuesque  effect  which  Josephine  se- 
cured; but  it  did  very  well,  and  Josephine,  always  mak- 
ing overtures  of  friendship  to  her  whimsical  pupil, 
ventured  to  compliment  her  one  day  on  her  new 
coiffure. 

"It  isn't  exactly  new,"  said  Bertha,  coolly.  "I  usu- 
ally wear  my  hair  this  way  in  the  summer-time." 

For  reasons  of  her  own,  Josephine  suspected  that  this 
was  a  lie.  Yet  she  was  half  ashamed  of  the  suspicion 
when  the  girl's  flutelike  voice  stole  forth  a  moment  later 
like  a  lost  strain  of  angel-music.  The  truth  was,  Jose- 
phine had  not  yet  had  a  chance  to  study  the  contrasts 
offered  by  Harvey  Congreve  and  his  wife,  or  she  might 
have  better  understood  the  contrasts  offered  by  their 
child.  It  was  not  long,  though,  before  she  got  a  peep 
into  the  Congreve  household. 

"Miss  Priestley,  mamma  and  I  would  be  glad  to  have 
you  and  your  sister  take  tea  with  us  to-morrow  even- 
ing," said  Bertha,  after  her  lesson  one  day. 

"Thank  you,  we  shall  be  glad  to  come  —  Bertha," 

102 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

answered  Josephine,  venturing  for  the  first  time  to  ad- 
dress the  girl  by  her  given  name. 

Mrs.  Congreve  had  suggested  that  Morris  Davenport 
also  be  asked  in  for  that  evening,  but  Bertha  had 
promptly  vetoed  this. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Volley. 

"Because  I  don't  want  him." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  Volley,  sweetly.  She  under- 
stood, and  a  knowing,  half  -  derisive  light  leaked^out 
from  under  her  lazy,  long-lashed  lids.  "  He'd  help  in 
entertaining,  if  Harvey  should  happen  to  have  the 
dumps." 

Harvey  did  not  happen  to  have  the  dumps.  He  was 
in  prime  spirits,  in  fact.  After  tea  he  insisted  on  the 
guests  seeing  his  study,  and  when  Mrs.  Congreve  had 
gone  ahead  and  lighted  a  lamp,  he  sent  his  wheeled 
chair  caracoling  along  in  advance  of  the  party  in  a  way 
pathetically  suggestive  of  the  gambolling  of  a  boy.  The 
room  was  in  true  student's  disorder,  littered  with  papers 
and  books,  and  scented  with  tobacco.  What  space  was 
not  occupied  by  book-cases  was  given  over  to  potted 
plants,  and  in  a  bay-window  a  huge  sword-fern  hung 
from  the  ceiling. 

"Here  is  where  7  live,"  said  Harvey,  gayly.  "A 
library  has  one  great  advantage  over  all  other  luxuries. 
If  your  wheel  of  fortune  happens  to  take  a  turn,  as  mine 
did,  you  can't  sell  your  books  for  much,  if  anything — 
especially  in  a  town  like  Tellfair — and  you  can  there- 
fore keep  them  without  hurting  your  conscience  or  per- 
plexing your  neighbors  over  how  you  make  both  ends 
meet.  Now  if  I  kept  a  horse  worth  one-hundredth  part 
of  what  I  paid  for  these  books,  this  town  would  be  in  a 
state  of  unrest  over  my  extravagance." 

Josephine  wondered  how  Mrs.  Congreve,  who  looked 
far  from  poverty-stricken,  in  a  rough,  gray  gown  of 
faultless  fit,  relished  these  reflections.  But  she  seemed 

103 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

quite  as  philosophical  as  her  husband,  and  said  to  Jose- 
phine, in  a  matter-of-fact  tone,  "  If  you  like  books,  Miss 
Priestley,  you  and  Mr.  Congreve  will  be  friends." 

"I  love  them.  We  have  a  large  library  of  our  own 
— and  for  much  the  same  reason,"  she  added,  with  a 
smile. 

When  they  returned  to  the  sitting-room,  Victoria 
played  on  the  piano  and  Josephine  sang.  The  latter 
had  a  rich  contralto,  which  old  D'Artaquette.her  teacher, 
used  ecstatically  to  liken  to  the  dim,  vaulted  space  of 
Notre  Dame  shaken  with  the  sobbing  of  the  organ.  As 
she  now  sang  a  weird  German  folk-song,  Harvey  Con- 
greve's  eye  grew  bright  with  moisture,  for  he  was 
womanishly  sensitive  to  such  things.  His  wife's  gray 
orbs  were  inscrutable,  as  usual.  Yet  as  they  stole  from 
her  husband's  rapt  face  to  the  strong,  young  figure  at  the 
piano,  they  glowed  with  a  subtle  hostility.  Volley's 
gods  were  Youth  and  Beauty,  but  only  as  embodied  in 
herself.  She  had  beauty,  and  she  had  retained  her 
youth  in  a  manner  truly  remarkable.  She  was  no  more 
of  a  songster  than  a  crow,  it  is  true;  but  it  was  not  envy 
of  Josephine's  voice  which  now  lay  over  her  face  like  a 
gray  veil.  Rather  it  was  envy  of  a  purity  and  spirit- 
uality which  she  had  never  possessed;  or,  if  she  had,  she 
had  long  since  worn  it  away  by  her  ambitious,  restless, 
selfish  life. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  or  after,  and  Victoria  was  tele- 
graphing with  her  eyes  to  Josephine  that  it  was  time 
to  go,  when  a  heavy  step  sounded  in  the  hall,  without 
warning  of  bell,  a  hat  was  clapped  audibly  upon  the  hall- 
tree,  and  a  burly  figure  next  loomed  in  the  shadows 
beyond  the  doorway. 

"Excuse  me!"  the  gentleman  exclaimed,  in  a  voice 
which  would  have  been  effective  at  a  hundred  yards,  and 
halted  at  sight  of  the  visitors.  "Didn't  know  you  had 
company,  Harvey." 

104 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Come  in,  Bradley,"  said  Congreve. 

Hayford — for  it  was  he  —  carried  a  funnel-shaped 
parcel  which  strongly  suggested  flowers,  in  the  half- 
light  in  which  Josephine  saw  it;  and  he  flourished  this 
as  he  made  an  exaggerated  bow  of  apology.  Mrs.  Con- 
greve instantly  arose  and  crossed  the  room  with  ser- 
pentine grace  and  swiftness;  and  before  Mr.  Hayford 
could  possibly  come  in  she  had  placed  herself  squarely, 
though  most  naturally,  between  him  and  the  door. 

"Let  me  take  your  hat,  Bradley,"  said  she,  audibly 
to  all. 

Josephine  was  quite  sure  that  he  had  no  hat  to  take, 
both  having  heard  him  hang  it  up  and  having  seen  his 
hands,  empty  save  for  the  parcel.  Nevertheless,  Volley 
hovered  in  front  of  him  for  an  instant,  and  then  lithely 
slipped  aside.  And,  lo!  when  he  stood  again  revealed, 
after  his  brief  eclipse,  the  funnel-shaped  parcel  had 
vanished,  to  be  seen  no  more  by  either  of  the  Priestleys. 
Mrs.  Congreve  reappeared  an  instant  later,  bland  and 
smiling. 

Hayford  was  a  man  of  herculean  mould,  yet  of  as- 
tonishing grace  and  lightness  on  his  feet.  Josephine 
learned  later,  to  her  amazement,  that  he  had  acquired 
the  latter  in  the  prize-ring,  Not  over  forty,  his  short 
hair  was  sprinkled  with  gray.  At  first  glance,  it  would 
have  been  easy  to  mistake  him  for  a  philanthropist, 
for  he  had  a  soft,  blue  eye  and  a  large  and  easy  presence. 
But  once  he  spoke,  he  was  just  a  commonplace,  loud- 
voiced  horse -trader,  whom  Nature,  for  reasons  of  her 
own,  had  seen  fit  to  dress  in  the  flesh  of  a  god. 

He  was  a  ready  talker,  and  not  in  the  least  embar- 
rassed by  the  presence  of  two  strange  young  women. 
His  mind,  though,  worked  in  a  microscopic  circle,  and 
in  the  centre  of  this  circle  was  a  horse.  Whether  the 
talk  ran  to  the  President  of  the  United  States,  or  Tim 
Hollenbeck,  the  village  ne'er-do-well,  or  music,  or  his- 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

tory,  ;  Bradley,   sooner    or    later  —  generally   sooner  — 
brought  it  back  to  horses;  and,  once  he  got  it  there,  it 
was  no  easy  matter  to  wrest  it  from  him  again.     And, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  did,  by  his  sincerity,  capture  the 
interest  of  the  company. 

After  a  little,  though,  Josephine  began  to  suspect  that 
Mr.  Congreve  was  slyly  egging  Hay  ford  on.  Harvey 
had,  in  fact,  himself  started  the  equine  discussion  by 
informing  the  girls  that  Mr.  Hayford  was  the  proprie- 
tor of  a  livery-stable — one  of  the  best-equipped,  so  far 
as  blooded  stock  went,  in  the  northern  part  of  the 
State. 

"They've  got  a  better  one  in  Rockford,"  said  Bradley, 
modestly. 

"How  many  horses  have  you  now?"  inquired  Con- 
greve. 

"Twenty-three — including  them  two  ponies  I  bought 
of  Ryerson.  I  got  stuck  on  them.  I'd  swap  'em  for 
jack-rabbits  now." 

"You  must  go  through  his  stable  some  day,  young 
ladies,  if  you  like  horses.  It's  well  worth  a  visit." 

"If  she's  been  riding  behind  Morris  Davenport's 
horses,"  said  Hayford,  looking  at  Josephine,  "she  won't 
see  much  in  my  bunch  to  admire.  I  missed  a  chance  to- 
day to  get  a  good  common  horse.  You  remember  that 
crinkly  tailed,  round-bellied  black  mare  of  Rossiter's, 
Harvey?  Was  out  on  Hagley's  place  all  winter,  and 
snagged  her  foot  on  a  barb -wire  fence.  Bud  Smith 
bought  her  to-day.  Paid  a  hundred  and  three-quarters. 
Too  much.  I  offered  one  and  a  half." 

Bud  Smith  had  bought  the  mare,  it  came  out,  to  use 
in  his  delivery-wagon.  This  turned  the  conversation  to 
Bud's  new  grocery-store,  and  then  to  stores  in  general; 
but  long  before  this  Hayford  had  dropped  out.  Then 
came  a  lull. 

"  Doc  Sanderson  got  kicked  this  afternoon  by  Hartley's 
106 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

iron-gray,"  observed  Bradley.  Sanderson  was  a.horse- 
doctor.  "Broke  his  hip,  I  understand." 

"Sanderson  is  a  most  unfortunate  man,"  said  Con- 
greve,  and  went  on  at  some  length  to  cite  instances, 
ending  by  telling  how  Sanderson  had  lost  his  first  wife. 
Another  lull. 

"I  guess  the  gray  will  die,"  said  Bradley,  cheerfully. 
"Hartley  sent  over  to  Marysville  for  a  veter'nary  this 
afternoon.  The  trouble  with  Hartley  is  he  don't  feed 
right." 

Josephine  had  an  insane  desire  to  laugh.  To  overcome 
-the  dangerous  tendency,  she  remarked  that  she  thought 
the  country  around  Tellfair  must  be  a  good  one  for  rais- 
ing horses — so  many  people  in  Tellfair  were  fanciers. 

"First-class  plugs  are  scarce,  though,"  observed  Hay- 
ford,  gloomily. 

He  gallantly  escorted  the  girls  home  when  they  left, 
and  expressed  his  regret  that  he  had  no  horse  there  to 
draw  them.  That  human  legs  were  made  for  locomotion 
was  a  fact  not  readily  accepted  by  him,  and  he  regarded 
the  young  ladies'  assurance  that  they  would  just  as  soon 
walk  as  merely  a  polite  fiction. 

It  was  not  until  she  had  gone  to  bed  that  Josephine 
remembered  that  this  was  the  man  who  held  the  mort- 
gage on  her  home.  She  was  very  glad,  then,  that  she  had 
not  laughed. 

Josephine  was  not  the  only  one  who  suspected  Con- 
greve  of  complicity  in  Hayford's  exceeding  and  even 
unusual  horsiness.  Mrs.  Congreve  had  sat  for  some 
moments  with  an  ominous  fire  smoldering  in  her  eyes. 
After  the  visitors  had  gone  this  fire  blazed  up  fiercely. 

"  If  I  were  you,  Harvey,"  said  she,  angrily,."  I  wouldn't 
attempt  to  make  one  of  the  few  friends  who  had  stuck 
to  me  through  my  adversity  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of 
strangers." 

107 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"What  did  I  do?"  he  asked,  in  surprise. 

"Don't  you  know?"  she  demanded.  "Didn't  you 
keep  Bradley  on  horseback  all  evening,  while  I  was 
doing  my  best  to  pull  him  off,  and  not  let  him  make  a 
fool  of  himself  before  those  girls,  and  bore  them  with 
his  hobby?" 

"I  merely  let  him  strike  his  gait,"  said  Harvey.  "I 
don't  think  he  bored  the  girls." 

"No,  I  think  you  fancied  they  were  getting  a  good 
deal  of  fun  out  of  him,"  she  retorted,  "and  you  saw  to 
it  that  the  sport  didn't  flag.  Do  you  suppose  that  those 
young  women  would  suspect  from  your  conduct  that 
that  man  was  a  time-tried  friend  of  yours  and  mine? 
No.  They  had  every  reason  to  believe  him  a  buffoon 
whom  you  had  invited  in  for  their  entertainment.  Good- 
night." 

The  parting  words  were  not  a  concession  to  af- 
fection or  even  domestic  decency,  but  an  implication 
that  he  could  get  to  bed  that  night  alone.  This  he 
could  do  on  a  pinch.  He  did  not  go  at  once,  however, 
but  wheeled  into  the  study,  where  a  lamp  was  still 
burning,  and  took  up  a  book — his  usual  harbor  in  time 
of  storm.  But  he  was  too  much  disturbed  this  time 
to  read.  Perhaps  he  felt  a  little  guilty,  too,  on  reflec- 
tion ;  and  he  searched  his  heart  for  any  hidden  motive 
for  making  Bradley  Hayford  ridiculous.  He  asked 
himself ,  point-blank,  if  he  were  jealous  of  Hayford;  and 
he  answered,  point-blank,  that  he  was  not. 

Hayford  had  been  kind  to  him,  as  Volley  said,  and  he 
hoped  he  was  not  ungrateful.  But  he  and  Hayford  had 
nothing  in  common.  Two  men  wider  apart  could  hard- 
ly have  been  found.  Hayford  often  unwittingly  of- 
fended Congreve's  finer  senses  by  his  native  coarseness, 
and  it  was  not  unnatural  that  dislike  should  occasionally 
stir  in  Congreve's  heart. 

Bertha,  as  usual,  had  taken  no  part  in  the  family 
108 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

jar.  A  few  minutes  later  she  entered  the  study  and 
kissed  her  father  good -night,  with  more  than  usual 
fervor. 

"I  have  turned  your  bed  down,  papa,"  said  she,  "and 
laid  out  your  gown." 

He  retained  her  in  his  arms  a  moment. 

"Do  you  think  I  made  Bradley  ridiculous  to-night, 
my  dear?"  he  asked. 

"He  doesn't  need  anybody  to  make  him  ridiculous." 

"Do  you  think  the  young  ladies  thought  I  was  trying 
to  make  him  so?" 

"  I  don't  believe  they  did.  I  didn't.  Mamma  is  too 
sensitive  about  Bradley." 

He  winced  a  little  under  the  last,  and  let  her  go. 
When  she  re-entered  her  bedroom — she  and  her  mother 
slept  together — Volley  was  just  unwrapping  a  cluster 
of  gorgeous  red  roses.  She  sniffed  at  them  critically 
once  or  twice,  and  then  coolly,  wantonly,  tossed  them 
into  a  corner. 

"  I  don't  think  papa  would  do  that,"  remarked  Bertha, 
significantly. 

Volley,  deigning  no  answer,  moodily  undressed,  and 
it  was  not  until  she  was  combing  her  splendid  hair  that 
she  said,  spitefully,  "Bradley  talked  like  a  donkey  to- 
night." 

"I  thought  he  talked  like  a  horse,"  said  Bertha,  with 
a  little,  short  laugh.  She  seldom  tried  a  witticism,  and 
never  unless  the  flight  was  short  and  sure.  "I  don't 
see  what  you  admire  about  that  man,  mamma." 

"Admire!"  cried  Volley,  wrathfully.  "Who  said  I 
admired  him?  Isn't  he  my  cousin?  Because  I  open 
my  house  to  him,  and  ride  behind  his  horses  occasion- 
ally, and  defend  him  against  those  who  would  make  him 
ridiculous,  am  I  an  admirer  of  his?" 

Bertha  wisely  held  her  tongue,  and  got  down  on  her 
knees  and  began  to  gather  up  the  roses,  smelling  them 

109 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

one  by  one.  She  loved  flowers,  and  her  mother  did  not. 
Volley  watched  her  curiously,  and  finally  asked,  iron- 
ically but  conciliatingly : 

"Do  they  all  smell  different?     You  try  each  one." 
"No,  all  alike,  and  all  like  horse,"  answered  Bertha. 
But  it  was  all  in  good  fun,  and  Volley  herself  laughed. 


XIII 

OLD-SETTLERS'  DAY  broke  as  crystal  clear  as  a 
fairy  bubble  blown  from  a  drop  of  dew.  A  flutter- 
ing breeze  came  playing  out  of  the  northeast,  and  a 
few  fleecy  cloud-streamers  hung  in  the  sky  to  gladden 
many  an  anxious  weather-eye  squinted  heavenward  that 
morning  throughout  the  county. 

Old  Benny  Wickwire,  tottering  along  on  his  three 
legs,  was  the  first  person  to  appear  in  the  court-house 
square,  where  a  canopied  platform  and  plank  seats  had 
been  erected  the  day  before  Selecting  a  good  position, 
with  reference  to  shade,  view,  etc.,  the  old  man  backed 
up  to  the  seat,  grasped  his  knotted  stick  with  both 
his  knotted  hands,  doubled  his  rheumatic  old  body  to- 
gether like  a  rusty  jackknife,  with  many  a  twinge  and 
crack  of  joint  and  groan,  and  then  carefully  let  himself 
down. 

He  was  now  ready  for  the  exercises,  which  would 
begin  some  four  hours  later;  and,  after  lighting  his  clay 
pipe,  he  cocked  his  watery  eyes  towards  the  fresh  morn- 
ing sun  to  ascertain  the  time  of  day.  As  he  did  so  the 
Presbyterian  clock  struck  six.  He  calculated  that  it 
was  about  fifteen  minutes  slow,  and  said  so  to  himself, 
aloud,  and  resolved  to  tell  the  sexton  of  the  church, 
whom  he  did  not  like. 

He  spent  the  next  two  hours  in  smoking,  and.  in 
wondering  whether  he  had  chosen  the  best  seat,  after 
all,  and  in  formulating  his  strictures  on  the  Presby- 
terian clock.  Then  the  second  Old  Settler  appeared — 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

Malachi  Bell.  He  was  fully  fifteen  years  older  than 
Benny,  and  looked  fully  fifteen  years  younger.  He 
strode  briskly  down  the  gravelled  walk — with  a  cane, 
to  be  sure,  but  swinging  it  as  airily  as  a  drum-major's 
baton — nodded  carelessly  at  Wickwire,  actively  mount- 
ed the  steps  to  the  platform,  critically  noted  the  ar- 
rangement of  chairs  there,  moved  one  or  two  an  inch 
or  so,  and  then  sat  down,  experimentally,  as  if  facing 
an  audience.  Clearly  he  was  one  in  authority.  Benny, 
behind  a  cloud  of  smoke,  like  a  squid  in  his  ink,  eyed 
him  greenly. 

The  third  Old  Settler  soon  followed,  and  then  they 
came  in  twos  and  threes.  Teams  from  the  country 
began  to  fill  the  hitching-rack  around  the  square.  The 
train  from  the  west  brought  in  a  company  of  twenty  or 
so,  and  the  train  from  the  east  as  many  more.  By  ten 
o'clock  the  square  was  well  filled — not  with  Old  Settlers 
alone,  for  these  were  comparatively  few  in  number,  but 
citizens,  mothers  with  babes,  young  women  in  holiday 
finery,  a  few  young  men,  and  children.  The  big  flag  on 
the  court-house  was  riding  blithely  on  the  breeze.  The 
band  had  galloped  through  one  or  two  slashing  airs.  A 
pop-corn  wagon  and  two  lemonade  stands  were  driving 
a  brisk  trade.  Committee-men  were  distributing  badges 
to  identify  the  Old  Settlers  and  designate  the  number  of 
years  each  had  lived  in  the  county. 

Dinner  was  already  under  way,  for  many  had  break- 
fasted at  daybreak  and  would  be  more  than  hungry 
by  early  noon.  Two  tables  of  vast  length,  resembling 
bowling-alleys,  made  two  sides  of  a  square.  In  the 
angle  formed,  the  Woman's  Relief  Corps,  which  was  to 
serve  the  dinner,  had  established  its  commissary.  Here 
the  fair  volunteers,  all  in  white  aprons,  swarmed  like 
bees,  plying  knives  and  can-openers,  making  sand- 
wiches, slicing  cold  meats,  carving  chickens,  cutting 
cakes  and  pies,  opening  sardines  and  salmon,  tying  col- 

112 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

ored  threads  of  identification  to  borrowed  silverware, 
chattering  like  magpies,  laughing,  shrieking,  jostling, 
crossing  and  recrossing,  ordering  and  counter-ordering, 
yet  doing  a  vast  amount  of  work  withal. 

After  the  greetings  were  over,  the  old  men  naturally 
fell  apart  in  little  groups.  Here  they  fought  over  the 
Civil  War — many,  if  not  most  of  them,  wore  G.  A.  R. 
buttons — speculated  on  crops  and  politics,  disputed  as 
to  whether  Coon  Creek  was  bridged  in  '41  or  not,  dis- 
cussed the  distance  by  the  old  corduroy  road  from 
Herkimer's  to  the  grist  -  mill,  and  settled  the  year, 
month,  and  day  on  which  Sam  and  Jennie  Small  bought 
the  first  kerosene-lamp  ever  seen  in  the  county. 

Some  of  the  gayer  ones  boastfully  held  out  their 
palsied  hands  to  prove  the  steadiness  of  their  nerves,  or 
strained  their  eyes  to  show  that  they  could  read  with- 
out glasses.  Elbridge  Smith,  aged  eighty,  cut  a  pigeon- 
wing  on  the  pavement  in  front  of  the  court-house  steps, 
and  ended  by  leaping  in  the  air — fully  two  inches — and 
attempting  •  to  knock  his  heels  together,  which  little 
vanity  cost  him  a  lame  back  the  rest  of  the  day. 

In  this  same  group,  seated  on  the  steps,  was  a  slender 
man  in  army  blue — unquestionably  a  veteran.  There 
was  a  fixed  smile  on  his  patrician  face  and  his  eyes 
were  rather  glassy;  but  it  did  not  occur  to  Josephine, 
until  Davenport  told  her,  that  the  man  was  tipsy. 

"I  must  tell  you  about  him,"  said  Davenport.  "His 
name  is  Henry  Drake.  At  one  time  his  family  and 
three  others  practically  owned  this  county.  The  house 
Mrs.  Shipman  lives  in  now  is  the  old  Drake  homestead, 
and  in  that  day  was  considered  a  palace.  Henry's 
father  deeded  this  ground  to  the  county  to  be  used  for 
a  court-house  site.  At  one  time  Henry  was  considered 
the  most  eligible  young  man  in  the  county.  He  was 
a  fine-looking  fellow,  a  good  dancer,  rich,  and  a  grad- 
uate of  Harvard.  When  he  marched  bravely  off  to 
s  113 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

war  in  his  captain's  uniform,  I  have  heard  Mrs.  Ship- 
man  say  half  a  dozen  girls  cried,  and  mothers  pointed 
him  out  to  their  boys  as  the  perfection  of  manhood. 

"Camp-life  ruined  him.  He  came  back  debauched, 
a  slave  to  drink,  and  with  an  unconquerable  repugnance 
to  work.  Of  course,  he  went  rapidly  from  bad  to  worse. 
Society  held  on  to  him  for  a  long  time,  for  the  sake  of 
what  he  had  been;  but  as  his  family  died  off  and  his 
fortune  oozed  away,  he  slowly  sank  lower  and  lower. 
To-day  he  lives,  rent  free,  in  a  basement  under  one  of 
the  stores  he  used  to  own,  cooking,  eating,  and  sleeping 
in  a  single  room.  His  highest  ambition  is  to  work  some- 
body for  a  drink.  He  might  have  been  a  venerable  old 
man,  honored  by  the  community,  and  the  head  of  a 
large  and  useful  family.  As  it  is,  he  has  no  wife,  no 
child,  no  one  to  soothe  him  when  he's  sick,  no  one  to 
hold  his  hand  when  he  dies.  Look  at  that  smile,  though ! 
He's  a  gentleman  to  the  bone,  and  to-day  would  give  his 
last  dime  to  any  one  who  needed  it  more  than  himself. 
And  yet  he  will  be  forgotten  before  he  has  been  dead  a 
month." 

A  mist  of  pity  filled  Josephine's  eyes.  When  Daven- 
port whimsically  offered  to  introduce  her  to  Henry,  she 
shook  her  head. 

"I  couldn't  make  sport  of  the  poor  old  man,"  said 
she. 

"Then  I'll  introduce  you  to  some  one  else — the  king 
of  these  grayheads,  the  oldest  of  them  all,  a  man  who 
in  two  years,  if  he  lives,  will  write  his  age  in  three  fig- 
ures." 

From  this  preface  Josephine  looked  for  a  mere  shell 
of  a  man,  a  hoary  human  cocoon.  To  her  amazement 
the  king  proved  a  ruddy-faced,  roly-poly  old  fellow 
perched  on  a  bench,  from  which  he  swung  his  fat  legs 
like  a  school-boy.  He  was  cackling  mirthfully  over  a 
story  which  some  youth  of  sixty  or  seventy  had  just 

114 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

told.  He  looked  as  pugnacious  as  a  cock-sparrow,  and 
his  shaggy  beaver  hat  of  ancient  mould  stood  up  as 
pertly  as  a  topknot. 

"Uncle  Billy,  I  want  you  to  meet  a  young  lady  who 
has  recently  come  to  Tellfair  to  live."  When  Uncle 
Billy  had  gallantly  scrambled  to  the  ground,  Davenport 
continued:  "Miss  Priestley,  this  is  Uncle  Billy  Mander- 
son.  He  was  ninety-eight  years  old  last  March,  and  he 
drove  to  town  this  morning  alone — nine  miles.  He  has 
been  a  member  of  the  Methodist  Church  for  a  trifle  over 
ninety  years,  and  says  that  he  is  beginning  to  feel  per- 
fectly at  home  there." 

Throughout  this  presentation  Billy  blinked  his  little, 
weak,  blue  eyes  smilingly — yet  shrewdly,  too,  Josephine 
fancied,  as  if  he  penetrated  Davenport's  flattery.  He 
was  undoubtedly  childish,  though.  He  laughed  and 
crowed  over  trivial  things  which  had  happened  seventy- 
five  or  eighty  years  before;  he  went  off  like  a  bunch  of 
fire -crackers  when  Davenport  maliciously  referred  to 
some  farmer  who  had  once  shot  one  of  Billy's  trespass- 
ing pigs;  and  later  he  alluded  to  Lincoln's  assassination 
as  though  it  had  happened  the  year  before. 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  Association  was  convened  for  a 
brief  session  before  dinner.  The  members  slowly  filled 
the  seats  reserved  for  them  immediately  in  front  of  the 
stand.  Old,  purblind,  and  uncertain  were  they — bent, 
gray,  and  palsied — frail,  shrunken,  and  stiff — a  harvest 
to  make  Death's  mouth  water.  Yet  some  were  straight 
and  robust,  and  a  few  were  gay  and  sprightly,  like 
Malachi  Bell  and  Uncle  Billy  Manderson —  and  these 
among  the  oldest. 

On  the  end  of  the  first  row  sat  a  man  who  drew 
Josephine's  eyes  almost  against  her  will.  So  ancient, 
hoary,  and  mummified  was  he  that  he  might  have  been 
tomb-keeper  to  the  Pharaohs.  His  silk  tile  hung  on 
his  fleshless  skull  like  an  inverted  bucket  on  a  post, 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

dropping  down  over  his  ears  and  all  but  over  his  eyes. 
His  long,  black  coat,  many  sizes  too  big,  puckered  in 
a  thousand  wrinkles;  and  its  collar,  standing  out  from 
his  shrunken  neck,  touched  the  brim  of  his  hat  behind. 
A  scarerow  would  have  had  more  shape  and  stability, 
and  he  seemed  ready  to  collapse  at  any  moment.  Yet 
he  sat  through  it  all,  motionless,  like  some  strange,  un- 
canny, sick  bird,  with  its  head  and  neck  buried  in  its 
feathers,  only  its  beak — his  hooked  nose — sticking  out, 
and  the  sinister,  unwinking  eyes  behind. 

The  pioneer  army  of  which  these  men  were  the  last 
company  had  invaded  Tellfair  County  when  it  was  well- 
nigh  a  primeval  waste.  Only  a  few  French  trappers  had 
been  before  them.  Nature  reigned  supreme.  No  human 
hand  had  disturbed  the  rich,  black  soil  and  turned  it 
up  to  be  kissed  by  the  sun.  The  sand-hill  crane  winged 
its  low,  labored  flight  over  an  uncharted  sea  of  prairie 
grass.  The  red-skinned  children  of  the  land  came  and 
went  along  their  narrow  trails,  or  reared  beside  some 
stream  their  villages  of  a  day.  The  wolf  skulked  from 
grove  to  grove  in  its  ceaseless  race  with  Cold,  Hunger 
and  Death. 

The  pioneer  brought  with  him  the  tools  and  knowl- 
edge of  civilization;  but  the  fight,  after  all,  was  not  un- 
like the  fight  which  Adam  made  with  Earth  when 
driven  out  of  Eden.  This  new  Adam  burned  off  the 
ten-foot  prairie  grass,  ploughed  and  sowed,  and  some- 
times reaped;  built  houses,  bridged  streams,  made  roads. 
His  Eve  spun  and  wove  and  cut  and  sewed,  and  failed 
not  to  be  fruitful.  Both,  meanwhile,  were  pinched 
often  with  cold  and  hunger,  and  frequently  pierced  with 
arrows.  At  the  end  of  the  year  they  had  what  the 
crane,  the  wolf,  and  the  Indian  had — food,  none  too 
much,  and  shelter,  none  too  good. 

Yet  each  year  there  was  a  little  more  food,  a  little 
better  shelter,  and  more  time  to  think  and  pray  and 

116 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

play.  School-houses  and  meeting-houses  sprang  up. 
Then,  as  if  by  magic,  villages  and  towns.  Wagon  roads 
gridironed  the  county;  and  one  day  an  iron  dragon, 
breathing  smoke  and  fire,  shrieked  across  the  prairie, 
dragging  its  freighted  tail  behind. 

Then  it  was  that  the  ball  of  Progress  which  the  fathers 
had  so  laboriously  set  in  motion  at  first,  and  had  so 
laboriously  been  pushing  since,  suddenly  ceased  to  re- 
sist; yea,  left  their  hands — of  its  own  momentum,  ap- 
parently— and  spun  swiftly  ahead.  The  fathers  rubbed 
their  eyes  and  saw  that  their  children,  grown  in  a  night, 
as  it  were,  had  taken  the  ball  from  their  hands,  and  were 
driving  it  at  a  speed  which  they  could  not  hope  to 
emulate.  But  it  was  only  because  the  children  were 
using  steam  and  electricity,  organization  and  education. 

Even  so,  it  pained  the  fathers  a  little  at  first.  But 
their  ambition  had  mercifully  oozed  away  with  their 
youth  and  strength,  and  they  did  not  grieve  long.  They 
were  content  that  their  children  should  be  richer,  gentler, 
and  finer  than  they  themselves  had  been.  Yet  in  some 
ways  the  old  days  seemed  the  best,  and  they  liked  to  get 
together,  as  now,  and  talk  them  over. 

Roll-call  proceeded  slowly,  because  the  secretary's 
voice  was  weak  and  the  members'  ears  were  dull.  Eight 
or  ten  failed  to  respond,  and  three  or  four  of  these  would 
respond  no  more  to  any  earthly  summons.  Brief  obit- 
uaries of  the  latter  were  read,  the  old  men  bending 
forward,  with  hands  behind  their  ears,  straining  to  hear. 
Were  they  thinking  of  the  early  day  when  the  Associa- 
tion would  be  listening  thus  to  their  obituaries?  Then 
officers  were  elected  for  the  ensuing  year.  Emory 
Spencer  was  re-elected  to  the  presidency  for  the  tenth 
consecutive  term,  and  in  response  lisped  through  a 
speech  which  could  not  have  been  audible  at  a  dozen 
yards.  Then  the  session  adjourned  until  after  dinner. 

As  the  church  clock  tolled  twelve,  two  men  staggered 
117 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

across  the  street  from  Mrs.  Shipman's  with  a  steaming 
wash-boiler  between  them.  It  contained  coffee,  the  only 
hot  thing  served  at  dinner.  The  tables,  already  laden 
with  good  things,  were  quickly  filled,  although  there  was 
plenty  of  room  left  for  late-comers — some  of  the  busi- 
ness men  and  clerks.  Sticks,  crutches,  and  invalid- 
chairs  were  stowed  near  or  behind  the  aged  owners  by 
the  watchful  ladies,  and  then  Mrs.  Herbert,  president 
of  the  Relief  Corps,  gave  the  Baptist  minister  a  signal. 
He  arose  and  said  grace  in  a  voice  audible  to  all. 

"Now  I  think  we  can  be  seated,"  said  Davenport  to 
Josephine.  "There  are  two  empty  places  across  from 
Malachi  Bell,  and  you  will  have  a  good  chance  to  learn 
the  secret  of  his  marvellously  prolonged  vitality.  I'll 
tell  you  in  advance  that  one  of  his  maxims  is  that  you 
can't  have  steam  without  fuel." 

"Oh,  I  am  not  going  to  eat  here!"  said  Josephine. 
"Victoria  will  be  waiting  for  me  at  home.  I  should 
have  gone  before  to  help  her,  if  I  had  known  how  late 
it  was." 

"  She  doesn't  seem  to  need  much  help  at  this  mo- 
ment," replied  Davenport,  nodding  towards  the  other 
end  of  the  table. 

There,  sure  enough,  sat  Victoria,  with  half  a  dozen 
other  young  women,  as  much  at  home  as  if  she  had 
founded  the  Old  Settlers'  Association. 

"Why,  we  don't  belong  to  the  society,"  said  Jose- 
phine, blushing  for  Victoria's  audacity. 

"You  are  a  citizen  of  Tellfair,  aren't  you?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"Then  that  entitles  you  to  one  free  meal  on  Old- 
Settlers'  Day."  And,  half  against  her  will,  she  was 
forced  to  sit  down. 

At  one  o'clock  the  meeting  was  reconvened,  and  rem- 
iniscences were  in  order.  Davenport  secured  seats  for 
himself  and  Josephine  on  the  stage.  Here  were  the 

118 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

speakers  of  the  day,  the  band,  and  a  number  of  promi- 
nent citizens.  Old  Billy  Manderson — by  virtue  of  his 
great  age,  perhaps — also  occupied  a  seat  here,  and  just 
in  front  of  Josephine.  He  tapped  his  cane  impatiently 
whenever  the  programme  dragged  or  something  was  said 
which  he  did  not  like.  Several  times  he  shook  his  head 
vigorously,  and  once  he  called  out,  loudly, "  I  don't  know 
about  that!"  just  as  he  was  in  the  habit  of  doing  in 
church  when  he  disagreed  with  the  minister. 

The  reminiscences  were  not  exciting.  There  was  one 
old  gentleman,  though — tall,  thin,  white-haired,  brown- 
eyed — whose  laugh  was  so  sweet,  boyish,  and  contagious 
that  Josephine  loved  him  instantly.  Others  there  were, 
too,  who  stirred  her  veneration  to  its  fountain-head. 
And  she  listened  with  bated  breath  while  Randolph 
Harrison  told  how  his  father  and  two  brothers,  lost  on 
the  prairie  in  a  blizzard,  had  killed  and  disembowelled 
their  horses  and  crept  within  them  to  keep  from  freez- 
ing—  only  to  find  the  carcasses,  not  a  refuge,  but  a 
grave. 

But  mostly  the  old  men,  as  was  natural,  were  trivial, 
repeating,  and  long-winded.  Elbridge  Smith  took  his 
audience  to  Chicago  by  ox-team,  with  a  load  of  wheat, 
and  threatened  to  be  as  long  on  the  road  as  he  was  the 
first  time,  in  the  early  forties.  Ebenezer  Kell  occupied 
twenty  minutes  in  telling  how  he  used  to  bait  a  skunk- 
trap.  Marcus  Tully  faced  the  crowd  for  ten  minutes,  and 
doubtless  said  something,  for  his  lips  moved,  but  no  one 
'heard  what  it  was.  Maurice  Hurd  read  his  speech,  got 
his  sheets  of  note  -  paper  mixed,  skipped  some,  read 
others  twice  —  or  oftener  —  dropped  one,  watched  it 
flutter  to  the  ground,  waited  in  a  cold  sweat  till  a  boy 
had  restored  it,  and  then  sat  down,  overwhelmed  by 
confusion. 

The  next  speaker  was  Myron  Rakestraw  a  tall,  chalky, 
bloodless,  iceberg  sort  of  man. 

119 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"I  will  make  no  speech  to-day,"  said  he,  in  cold, 
measured  tones.  "I  will  simply  say,  for  the  benefit  of 
the  young  men  and  boys  present,  that  I  was  eighty- 
eight  years  old  yesterday,  and  that  I  feel  as  well  as  I 
did  forty  years  ago.  I  attribute  my  health  and  lon- 
gevity, first,  to  co-operating  intelligently  with  nature; 
second,  to  the  total  abstinence  from  all  forms  of  liquor 
and  tobacco." 

His  reference  to  "co-operating  with  nature"  pro- 
voked a  smile  in  many  quarters,  for  Rakestraw's  weak- 
ness for  patent  medicines  was  notorious,  and  one  of  the 
rooms  in  his  house  was  a  veritable  little  drug-store. 

"What's  that,  Brother  Rakestraw?"  asked  old  Billy 
Manderson,  sharply,  leaning  forward  with  his  hand  be- 
hind his  ear.  "I  didn't  just  ketch  that  part  about 
tobacco." 

"I  said,"  repeated  Rakestraw,  slowly  and  distinctly, 
"that  I  attributed  my  health  and  longevity  largely  to 
total  abstinence  from  liquor  and  tobacco." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  Brother  Rakestraw  —  I 
don't  know  about  that,"  said  Billy,  blinking  purblindly, 
shaking  his  head  and  smiling  his  most  peppery  smile. 
"I'm  ninety-eight  myself,  ten  years  older  than  you  be, 
and  I've  chewed  tobacco  since  I  was  six." 

A  roar  of  laughter  went  up  at  this. 

"I  guess  you  didn't  begin  quite  that  young,  Brother 
Manderson,"  answered  Rakestraw,  without  the  ghost  of 
a  smile. 

"Yes,  I  did — yes,  I  did,"  blustered  Billy.  "I  don't 
know  but  I  was  younger." 

Another  roar  went  up.  Rakestraw,  unmoved,  waited 
for  silence. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  would  be  a  great  deal  better  off 
if  you  had  left  tobacco  alone." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  that  my  health  has  been  any- 
thing to  complain  of,"  retorted  Billy,  with  snapping 

1 20 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

eyes.  "  I  don't  know  as  it's  been  any  worse  than  yours. 
If  all  I  hear  is  true,  you've  swilled  enough  patent  hog- 
wash  in  your  time  to  float  a  ship." 

"Medicine  has  its  use,"  answered  Rakestraw,  calmly, 
his  arctic  blood  impervious  to  anger.  "I  expect  my 
health  to  be  as  good  ten  years  from  now  as  it  is  to-day, 
which  is  better  than  yours,  I  dare  say,  or  any  other  man's 
who  has  chewed  and  spit  his  vitality  away." 

Billy's  hot  temper  instantly  boiled  over  at  this  re- 
flection on  his  vigor,  the  pride  of  his  life. 

"Don't  you  worry  about  my  spittin'  my  vitality 
-away!"  he  shouted,  flourishing  his  stick  in  warlike 
fashion.  "I'm  ten  years  older  than  you  be,  but  I'll 
live  yet  to  spit  tobacco-juice  on  your  grave.  And,  by 
gum,  I'll  do  it,  too!" 

Rakestraw  retired,  amid  a  tempest  of  jeers  and  laugh- 
ter, and  Davenport  pulled  old  Billy  down  by  the  coat- 
tails.  He  simmered  and  sputtered  a  moment,  but  end- 
ed with  a  loud,  triumphant  cackle. 

Davenport  followed  the  old  men  with  a  short,  im- 
promptu talk,  and  then  came  the  "orator  of  the  day" 
— Congressman  Littlejohn,  of  Marysville.  This  gentle- 
man was  of  the  dressy,  decorous  type  of  politician,  and 
his  rural  constituents  fondly  pictured  him  as  cutting  a 
swath  of  prodigious  width  in  Washington  society.  Mr. 
Littlejohn  was  careful  never  to  jar  this  illusion,  and  to- 
day his  attire  and  deportment  were  faultless.  He  bow- 
ed with  profound  respect  to  the  venerable  president; 
turned,  and  gallantly  saluted  the  ladies  on  the  stage,  and 
then,  with  finely  graduated  emotion,  bent  to  the  mixed 
crowd  below.  The  audience  was  rather  restless  under 
his  turgid  oratory,  but  the  Old  Settlers  listened  respect- 
fully, though  not  hearing  more  than  half,  perhaps,  of 
what  was  said,  and  not  understanding  more  than  half 
of  what  was  heard. 

The  gathering,  already  loosened  around  the  edges,  be- 

121 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

gan  to  break  up  as  soon  as  he  was  through;  but  the 
stirring  instantly  ceased  when  Mrs.  Shipman  advanced, 
unaided,  to  the  front  of  the  platform.  She  waited  a 
moment  for  quiet,  with  a  smile  on  her  face,  and  then 
began  in  her  low,  clear,  penetrating  voice : 

"Mr.  Spencer  wants  me  to  tell  you,  once  more,  how 
most  of  the  land  in  Tellfair  County  first  came  into 
white  hands,  although  I  am  not  a  bit  proud  of  the  part 
our  color  played  in  the  transaction.  I  have  often  heard 
La  Chance  himself  tell  the  story  to  my  father,  and  can 
vouch  for  its  truth. 

"Old  Blowhard,  as  the  whites  dubbed  the  Fox  chief, 
offered  La  Chance  all  the  land  on  every  side  as  far  as  he 
could  distinguish  a  mounted  pony  from  an  unmounted 
one,  standing  on  a  certain  elevation.  The  considera- 
tion on  La  Chance's  side  was  a  barrel  of  whiskey. 

"  The  less  said  about  that  whiskey  the  better,  perhaps, 
for  it  was  a  vile  compound  of  acids  and  vinegar,  and 
would  eat  out  a  copper  kettle  overnight,  La  Chance 
used  to  say,  although  I  never  quite  believed  that.  He 
claimed  in  defence,  though,  that  it  was  the  kind  the  Ind- 
ians liked  best.  They  always  wanted  their  drink  to 
bring  tears  to  their  eyes.  I  don't  wonder  they  named 
it  fire-water. 

"The  elevation  in  question  was  the  very  one  upon 
which  our  court-house  stands.  So  you  will  please  imag- 
ine this  slope,  on  a  certain  day  not  quite  a  century  ago, 
swarming  with  braves,  squaws,  pappooses,  dogs,  and 
ponies,  with  Old  Blowhard  and  La  Chance  at  the  top. 
Out  on  the  level  prairie,  in  each  direction  of  the  com- 
pass, and  something  like  a  mile  away,  was  a  mounted 
Indian  accompanied  by  a  loose  pony. 

" '  Brother,'  said  La  Chance,  looking  to  the  south  first, 
'I  can  see  plainly.  The  mounted  pony  is  on  the  left. 
Tell  him  to  go  farther.' 

"Old  Blowhard  grunted,  for  he  had  rather  expected 

122 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

to  tell  his  brave  to  come  closer,  having  but  a  poor  opin- 
ion of  the  Frenchman's  eyesight.  Then  he  nodded  to 
two  Indians  who  held  a  blanket  over  a  smudgy  fire.  Re- 
tarding the  smoke  with  this  blanket,  they  sent  three 
clouds  heavenward,  and  the  Indian  to  the  south  rode 
farther  off.  He  took  the  precaution,  though,  of  making 
the  ponies  circle  and  cross  each  other  in  a  most  be- 
wildering fashion,  so  that  La  Chance  could  by  no  pos- 
sibility carry  either  in  his  eye.  You  see,  they  didn't 
have  very  much  faith  in  us  whites,  even  then. 

"Brother,'  said  La  Chance,  'my  eyes  are  weak.  I 
will  look  through  these  tubes  to  shield  them  from  the 
sun.'  Upon  which  he  hauled  out  a  pair  of  powerful 
field-glasses.  Old  Blowhard  blinked  doubtfully. 

"'The  mounted  pony  is  on  the  left,'  said  the  worthy 
Frenchman. 

"Again  the  old  chief  grunted  and  nodded,  again  the 
rider  receded,  and  again  La  Chance  picked  him  out. 
This  process  was  repeated  until  the  Indians  crowded 
around  in  admiration  of  the  long-sighted  pale-face.  Yet 
it  is  true  that  when  the  ponies  were  mere  blurred  dots  in 
La  Chance's  glasses,  there  was  one  clean-limbed  young 
Indian  who  stood  stiffly  erect,  with  folded  arms,  near 
his  chief,  and  reported  to  him,  from  his  naked  eye,  when 
La  Chance  chose  wrong. 

"After  the  four  boundaries  had  been  thus  established 
and  duly  marked,  Old  Blowhard  said,  solemnly,  but  with 
a  twinkle  in  his  beady  eye :  '  Now,  brother,  turn  your 
tubes  to  the  sky,  if  they  will  shield  your  eyes  as  well  in 
that  direction,  and  see  if  the  Great  Spirit  doesn't  think 
you  are  getting  too  much  land  for  a  barrel  of  whiskey.' 

"This  was  so  good  that  La  Chance,  who  was  a  man  of 
humor  himself,  as  you  may  have  gathered,  added  the 
glasses  to  the  barrel  of  whiskey,  telling  the  chief  that 
with  these  he  could  see  his  enemies  afar.  '  Blowhard 
can  see  his  enemies  now  farther  than  they  can  see  him, 

123 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

which  is  enough,'  answered  the  chief,  'but  he  will  keep 
the  tubes  so  that  he  may  see  too  clearly  another  time 
to  make  a  fool  bargain  with  a  white  man.'  Which  re- 
mark, I  thought,  deserved  still  another  addition  to  the 
barrel  of  whiskey,"  she  concluded,  smilingly,  and  bowed 
and  retired. 

"Morris,"  said  Bertha,  drawing  him  aside  for  an  in- 
stant in  the  confusion  of  the  disintegrating  crowd, 
"Lucile  Hillyer  is  here.  She  and  another  girl  drove 
over  from  Sun  Prairie.  She  wants  to  see  you  and  have 
you  meet  her  friend." 

"I'll  bring  Miss  Priestley,  too." 

Bertha  looked  doubtful. 

"  I  thought  we  could  all  go  down  to  the  office  and  talk 
awhile,"  said  she,  vaguely. 

"Can't  Miss  Priestley  go  and  talk,  too?"  he  asked. 
Bertha's  desire  to  separate  Josephine  and  him  was  quite 
apparent. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  she,  struggling  with  the  anger 
which  she  had  been  repressing  for  hours, "that,  after  you 
have  given  most  of  the  day  to  Miss  Priestley,  you  might 
be  willing  to  give  a  little  time  to  some  one  else." 

"Very  well.  I'll  get  Miss  Priestley  out  of  the  crowd, 
and  then  I'll  meet  you  and  the  girls  at  the  office." 

But  he  did  not,  owing  to  an  unforeseen  event. 


XIV 

S  Davenport  moved  off  with  Josephine  he  saw  a 
group  of  jostling  people  along  the  hitching  -  rack. 
Pushing  in,  he  found  that  Emory  Spencer's  aged,  sway- 
backed  horse  had  lain  down  during  the  exercises  and 
peacefully  died — during  Elbridge  Smith's  recital,  it  was 
afterwards  claimed.  The  old  man  stood  by,  stunned, 
helplessly  rolling  one  small  nut-brown  hand  in  the  other, 
nervously  wetting  his  lips,  and  repeating  to  himself, 
"Mother  will  be  so  sorry,  mother  will  be  so  sorry."  It 
was  not  the  loss  of  the  horse's  value  which  affected  him, 
for  Emory  was  neither  poor  nor  stingy.  It  was  the 
unexpectedness  of  the  situation,  the  rude  break  in  his 
methodical  life,  together  with  a  natural  affection  for  an 
animal  which  he  had  bred  and  reared  and  used  for  a 
quarter  of  a  century. 

"  I  will  take  you  home,  Mr.  Spencer,"  said  Davenport, 
sorry  for  the  old  man.  "  You  can  send  one  of  the  boys 
in  to-morrow  for  the  buggy.  The  town  will  haul  the 
carcass  away,  so  you  needn't  worry  about  that.  I  will 
notify  the  street  commissioner  myself." 

The  old  gentleman  accepted  the  proffer  with  tremu- 
lous thanks.  But  by  the  time  Davenport's  single-seater 
and  pair  were  brought  up  by  a  stable-boy  fromH  ay  ford's, 
Emory  was  distressed  by  the  thought  of  leaving  his 
ramshackle  buggy  behind  overnight,  and  timidly  sug- 
gested that  it  be  lashed  behind  Davenport's.  Daven- 
port assented,  though  not  without  a  pang  at  thought 
of  the  scratches  his  brightly  varnished  running -gear 

125 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

would  receive.  A  rope  was  brought,  the  two  vehicles 
fastened  together,  and  all  made  ready  for  the  start. 
Then,  at  the  last  moment,  Emory  announced  his  in- 
tention of  riding  behind,  in  his  own  buggy,  to  watch  the 
lashings. 

"Well,  I  am  certainly  not  going  to  ride  alone,"  said 
Davenport,  with  a  smile  at  Josephine,  to  her  slight  con- 
fusion. "  Miss  Priestley,  won't  you  keep  me  company?" 

She  looked  at  the  beautiful  horses  longingly. 

"What  time  is  it?"  she  asked,  reflectively. 

"A  quarter-past  four." 

"And  how  far?" 

"Eight  miles." 

Her  face  fell. 

"Oh,  that  would  make  it  too  late." 

"I'll  promise  to  set  you  down  at  your  gate  in  time  for 
supper,"  said  Davenport,  promptly. 

Josephine  looked  incredulous,  though  no  more  so  than 
Emory  Spencer,  who  always  allowed  himself  an  hour 
and  a  half  to  drive  each  way.  She  yielded,  however — 
it  was  sweet  to  yield  to  those  masterful  hazel  eyes — 
sent  word  to  Victoria,  and  was  helped  into  the  glisten- 
ing, soft-seated  conveyance.  Emory  was  hoisted  bodily 
into  his  lofty  old  rattle-trap,  and  they  were  off. 

The  cool  northeast  breeze  had  ministered  faithfully  to 
the  Old  Settlers  all  forenoon,  but  since  dinner  it  had 
rather  overdone  its  part  and  piled  the  heavens  with 
clouds.  These,  very  shortly  after  Davenport  and  his 
charges  had  started,  grew  black  and  threatening;  thun- 
der growled  in  the  distance,  lightnings  leaped  up  on  the 
murky  horizon,  and  a  few  big  drops  fell  in  the  dusty  road 
with  little  explosive  puffs,  like  bullets.  Davenport  got 
out  his  side-curtains  and  boot,  made  all  snug,  brought 
the  old  man  forward,  and  then  sent  the  spirited  horses 
flying  on.  In  five  minutes  the  rain  was  coming  down  in 
sheets,  with  the  roar  of  a  waterfall. 

126 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

It  was  nearly  half -past  five,  owing  to  delays  and  flood- 
ed roads,  when  they  reached  Spencer's.  Emory  and  his 
wife  insisted  on -their  staying  for  supper;  and,  as  the 
storm  showed  no  signs  of  abating,  they  did  so.  Six 
o'clock  came — seven — eight,  and  the  inexhaustible  res- 
ervoir above  was  still  letting  down  its  waters. 

"We  must  get  home  to-night,  Mr.  Davenport,"  said 
Josephine,  in  a  low,  anxious  voice,  when  they  were  mo- 
mentarily alone. 

"We  will." 

"Because  my  sister  would  be  terribly  worried  about 
jne.  A  storm  always  makes  her  nervous." 

"Do  you  want  to  start  now?" 

"  I  should  like  to.  I  am  not  afraid  of  the  rain.  But 
if  you  think  it  will  stop  soon — "  She  paused. 

"It  seems  as  though  it  must.  Yet  it  may  rain  this 
way  for  hours." 

"Then  let's  go  home,"  she  murmured,  so  confidingly 
and.  appealingly  that  he  felt  a  thrill  within. 

In  borrowed  wraps,  they  set  out.  It  was  pitchy  dark, 
and  Davenport's  finding  the  gate  was  little  short  of 
marvellous  to  Josephine. 

"Why,  you  are  wet  through  already!"  she  exclaimed, 
as  she  accidentally  touched  his  sleeve. 

"Not  through.     I  got  that  in  hitching  up." 

"  I  thought  Mr.  Spencer's  boys  were  going  to  do  that." 

"They  helped.  Every  man  understands  his  own 
horses  best.  Besides,  on  a  drive  like  this,  I  prefer  to 
look  after  the  harness  myself." 

She  was  glad  that  he  had  looked  after  it  himself,  but 
said  nothing,  because  she  was  also  sorry  that  he  was  wet. 

No  straining  of  eyes  could  pierce  the  darkness.  An 
occasional  gleam  from  some  pool  along  the  road-side  was 
all  that  could  be  seen.  With  each  flash  of  lightning 
a  strange,  ghastly  world  was  revealed  for  a  blinding  in- 
stant. It  was  best — indeed,  necessary — to  let  the  horses 

127 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

go  their  own  way  and  regulate  their  own  speed,  which 
they  were  loath  to  increase  above  a  jog-trot.  Their 
shoes  rang  sharply  on  the  freshly  washed  gravel  of  the 
pike,  and  the  wheels  swished  through  brimming  ruts 
and  depressions. 

The  storm  had  worked  around  in  a  half-circle,  and 
most  of  the  electrical  disturbance  was  now  in  the  south- 
west, from  which  direction  the  wind  also  came,  blowing 
in  their  faces.  It  had  grown  colder,  too.  But  the  boot 
came  up  to  their  chins,  the  curtains  were  tight  all 
around,  and  it  was  warmer  and  snugger  in  the  buggy 
than  any  one  safely  housed  would  have  believed. 

Davenport  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  situation.  He  felt 
an  undefinable  nearness  to  the  woman  beside  him.  It 
was  as  though  he  and  she  were  in  a  little  world  of  their 
own.  It  would  have  been  easy  to  love  her,  and  easy 
to  tell  her  so — just  then;  just  as  easy,  he  fancied,  as  if 
he  were  in  reality  the  only  man  and  she  the  only  woman 
in  the  world.  He  noticed,  too,  that  she  betrayed  a 
te'ndency  to  lean  close  to  him,  as  if  she  also  felt  their 
isolation;  and  this  discovery,  it  may  be  imagined,  did 
nothing  to  dispel  the  witchcraft  already  at  work  in  his 
brain. 

So  pleasing  were  these  thoughts  that  he  did  not  speak 
for  a  long  time,  and  she  was  equally  reserved.  But 
there  came  a  moment  when  he  felt  that  he  ought  to 
speak,  that  to  speak  would  be  a  kindness  to  her,  es- 
pecially if  the  silence  were  telling  her  all  that  it  was  tell- 
ing him. 

"We  don't  have  to  look  out  for  teams,"  said  he,  finally. 

"No,"  she  murmured,  briefly. 

All  he  could  see  of  her  was  a  pale  cheek.  At  least,  it 
looked  pale,  and  he  asked  her  if  she  were  cold.  She 
said  no.  Then,  if  she  were  wet,  and  she  said  no  again. 

"Afraid?" 

"  No — not  with  you,"  she  answered,  so  simply  and  sin- 
128 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

cerely  that  again  he  felt  that  peculiar  thrill  within,  as 
if  an  invisible  hand  had  twitched  a  heartstring. 

Then  they  came  to  an  abrupt  stop. 

"What's  that  for?"  said  he,  to  the  horses.  "Go 
'long!" 

They  stirred  uneasily,  but  refused  to  advance. 

"That's  horse -talk  for  'Something  wrong,'  and  it's 
just  as  plain  as  English,"  said  he,  unbuttoning  the  boot 
on  his  side.  "Something  wrong  with  the  harness,  prob- 
ably." 

He  stepped  down  and  felt  both  horses  over.  He 
found  nothing  amiss.  Puzzled,  he  peered  ahead.  He 
saw  no  obstacle,  because  he  could  see  nothing,  but  a  few 
feet  in  advance  the  road  seemed  to  be  blacker,  if  that 
were  possible,  than  just  beneath  his  feet.  Moving  for- 
ward cautiously,  sidewise,  and  feeling  his  way  with  his 
feet,  he  found  that  the  road  had  sunk. 

If  this  were  the  culvert  between  Hennessy's  and 
Green's,  as  he  was  quite  sure  it  was,  there  ought  to  be.a 
passage  on  the  side,  along  what  in  dry  weather  was  a 
smooth,  noiseless  dirt-road,  a  favorite  with  lovers  on 
moonlight  nights.  It  was  lower,  though,  than  the  pike, 
and  was  probably  under  water. 

"What's  the  matter,  Mr.  Davenport?"  came  Miss 
Priestley's  anxious  voice  out  of  the  darkness. 

"Nothing  except  a  bad  place  in  the  road,"  he  an- 
swered, cheerily.  "We'll  go  by  on  the  side  as  soon  as  I 
investigate  a  little." 

He  slipped  down  the  bank  and  instantly  felt  water 
strike  through  his  shoes.  The  way  to  investigate  was  to 
wade  in,  and  this  he  promptly  did,  with  no  thought  of 
rheumatism  or  pneumonia.  In  the  deepest  place  the 
water  reached  his  thighs,  and  was  therefore  fordable. 
Returning  to  the  team,  he  backed  them  until  they  stood 
squarely  across  the  road ;  then,  cautioning  Josephine  to 
hold  tight  but  not  to  be  afraid,  he  led  the  horses  down 
9  129 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

the  steep  embankment  without  mishap,  although  they 
protested  snortingly  against  such  foolhardiness. 

Davenport  climbed  in;  the  horses  splashed  through 
the  water,  plunged  and  strained  up  the  sodden  ground 
on  the  other  side,  and  after  a  little,  of  their  own  ac- 
cord, put  the  gritty  gravel  of  the  pike  under  the  wheels 
again.  Josephine,  meanwhile,  clung  tightly  to  Daven- 
port's arm — unconsciously,  he  was  sure,  from  the  haste 
with  which  she  released  it  when  they  were  on  dry  land 
again. 

"You  didn't  get  wet,  did  you?"  she  asked,  naively. 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  he,  wriggling  his  toes  to  squeeze  the 
water  out  of  his  shoes. 

"As  I  sat  there  in  the  buggy,"  she  continued,  in  a 
little,  low,  grave  voice,  "  I  was  just  thinking  what  in  the 
world  I  should  do  if  I  were  alone." 

"You  would  have  done  just  what  other  women  have 
done  when  thrown  upon  their  own  resources  —  taken 
care  of  yourself.  People  are  helpless,  usually,  only  when 
there  is  some  one  to  help  them." 

"Nevertheless,  I  am  glad  there  was  some  one  to  help 
me,"  said  she,  and  he  would  have  given  much  to  catch 
the  expression  on  her  face. 

"No  gladder  than  I,"  he  answered,  so  boyishly  that 
he  instantly  blushed  for  himself.  Yet  he  continued, 
just  as  boyishly:  "I  feel  as  though  I  had  come  to  know 
you  better  in  the  last  few  hours,  Miss  Priestley,  than 
in  all  the  days  that  have  gone  before." 

"Why,  I  was  just  thinking  that  myself!"  she  ex- 
claimed. Then,  laughing,  she  added:  "And  I  have 
been  wanting  to  tell  you  about — about  your  hat.  Just 
look  at  your  hat,  Mr.  Davenport!  I  noticed  it  when 
you  got  in  last.  I  couldn't  see  before." 

He  took  off  his  straw  hat,  and  found  that  under  the 
soaking  it  had  received  the  flat  crown  had  shot  up  into 
a  mountain  -  peak.  Josephine  was  shaking  with  sup- 

130 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

pressed  laughter,  and  doubtless  he  did  look  ridiculously 
like  a  new  Robinson  Crusoe  in  a  goatskin  cap. 

"When  I  get  home  I  shall  have  to  lay  my  Bible  on 
that  hat  to  press  it  flat  again,"  said  he,  gayly. 

"And  if  you  can't  find  your  Bible,  I'll  lend  you  mine," 
she  retorted. 

He  would  have  enjoyed  all  this  more,  though,  if  they 
had  been  safely  across  Turkey  Creek,  which  was  subject 
to  treacherous  and  incredibly  sudden  rises.  He  was  not 
given  to  worry,  however,  and  was  forgetting  everything 
else  in  Josephine's  recovered  spirits  when  he  suddenly 
became  conscious  that  the  horses  were  wading  in  deep 
water.  They  had  splashed  through  so  much  shallow 
water  that  the  sound  had  almost  ceased  to  catch  his  ear. 
Swinging  one  foot  out,  he  was  amazed  and  somewhat 
alarmed  to  find  that  the  buggy  was  already  immersed 
axle-deep. 

He  stopped  the  horses  instantly,  and  was  arranging 
his  words  so  as  to  give  Miss  Priestley  the  least  alarm, 
when  the  elements  saved  him  that  trouble.  A  belated 
flash  of  lightning  threw  with  appalling  vividness  upon 
their  retinas  a  vast  flood  of  yellow,  angry,  swirling 
water  on  every  side,  dotted  with  brush-heaps  and  up- 
rooted trees.  Upon  the  breast  of  this  flood  they  them- 
selves seemed  afloat.  Just  above  them  blackly  loomed 
what,  in  the  weird,  green  glare,  looked  like  a  gallows. 
But  Davenport  knew  that  it  was  the  upper  works  of  the 
iron  bridge  over  Turkey  Creek,  and  thanked  God  in- 
wardly for  the  fact,  for  it  showed  that  the  horses  had  not 
wandered  from  the  road. 

Josephine  emitted  a  cry  of  terror  and  desperately 
seized  her  companion's  arm.  The  horses  started  ner- 
vously at  her  cry.  Davenport  soothed  them  with  a 
word  or  two,  and  then  all  was  still  save  the  moaning, 
lapping,  and  gurgling  of  the  invisible  water.  The  sound 
made  even  Davenport's  stout  heart  quail,  for  this  same 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

hungry  creek,  a  few  years  before,  had  swallowed  a  family 
of  eleven  in  one  dreadful  night,  not  a  hundred  rods  away. 

"Don't  get  frightened,  Miss  Priestley,"  said  he,  ear- 
nestly, "and  we'll  get  out  of  this  all  right.  You  have 
simply  to  leave  it  all  to  me.  Now  I  am  going  to  get  out, 
locate  the  bridge  exactly,  test  the  water  on  the  other 
side,  and  then  lead  the  horses  across." 

"But  you'll  get  wet!"  she  exclaimed,  holding  him 
tight,  with  no  thought  of  the  triviality  of  her  objection. 

"I'm  already  wet  to  my  waist.  Besides,  there  is  no 
other  way." 

"Can't  we  turn  around?" 

"No.  We  are  on  the  approach  to  the  bridge;  its 
banks  are  steep  and  high,  and  it  is  too  narrow  to  turn 
on." 

"Can't  we  get  out  and  walk  back,  then?  I'd  sooner 
get  wet,  and  stay  in  a  farm-house  all  night,  than  cross 
that  terrible  place."  She  shivered  at  memory  of  the 
lightning's  grewsome  revelation. 

"We  could  do  that,  if  it  were  necessary.  But  it  would 
leave  your  sister  to  worry  all  night,  unless  we  could  get 
a  telephone  message  through,  which  is  doubtful.  We 
should  have  to  abandon  the  buggy,  and  it  would  be  a 
tricky  business  to  get  the  horses  out  in  this  inky  at- 
mosphere. Altogether,  it  would  be — a  little  cowardly, 
don't  you  think?" 

"Very  well.     I'll  do  what  you  say." 

He  found  a  foot  of  water,  perhaps,  on  the  bridge.  How 
much  lay  beyond,  where  the  road  fell  away  from  the 
opposite  approach,  he  could  only  surmise.  As  he  re- 
membered the  bottom-land,  the  water  should  not  be 
deeper  on  that  side  than  on  the  other.  If  it  were,  and 
the  buggy  should  float,  and  the  horses  become  un- 
manageable, as  they  certainly  would  with  a  floating 
buggy  behind  them —  He  shuddered  at  the  thought. 
Again,  the  bridge  was  apparently  firm;  but  if  it  had  been 

132 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

undermined,  and  should  give  way  under  the  horses' 
weight,  it  would  mean  nearly  certain  death. 

He  waded  down  the  farther  approach  as  far  as  he 
thought  safe  in  the  swift  water,  for  he  dared  take  no 
chance  of  being  swept  off  and  leaving  his  helpless  charge 
alone.  Strengthened  in  his  belief  that  this  side  was 
fordable,  he  returned  to  the  bridge.  Here  he  stood  a 
moment  in  doubt.  Had  he  been  alone  his  course  would 
have  been  clear.  But  he  had  no  right  to  jeopardize 
her  life.  To  cross  the  bridge  would  be  to  do  this,  while 
he  knew  he  could  get  her  out  safely  in  the  other  direc- 
tion,  though  at  the  loss  of  his  buggy  and  possibly  his 
horses. 

"Miss  Priestley,"  said  he,  from  the  horses'  heads,  and 
his  voice  sounded  strangely  distinct  in  the  blackness, 
"the  bridge  may  not  be  safe — though  I  think  it  is;  and 
the  water  beyond  may  be  deep — though  I  think  not. 
Shall  we  go  on  or  turn  back?" 

"  Oh,  let's  go  on!"  she  cried,  eagerly.  "  If  these  beau- 
tiful horses  should  get  tangled  in  their  harness  and 
drown,  on  account  of  me,  I  should  feel  like  a  murderer." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  consider  the  horses,"  said  he; 
but  he  was  considering  them  himself,  and  liked  her  the 
better  for  doing  it,  too. 

"I  must  consider  them!"  said  she,  in  a  tense  voice. 
"Please  go  on!" 

Davenport  faced  about  and  led  the  reluctant  horses 
forward.  The  bridge  sustained  them  without  a  tremor. 
Then  they  began  the  descent  on  the  other  side,  very 
slowly  and  cautiously,  for  to  get  off  the  approach  would 
be  to  plunge  into  ten  or  twelve  feet  of  water.  When  the 
water  reached  Davenport's  waist,  he  called  to  Josephine 
to  put  her  feet  on  the  seat  and  hold  up  her  skirts. 
When  it  reached  his  armpits,  cold  as  it  was,  the  sweat 
streamed  down  his  temples.  The  horses  were  already 
snorting  and  plunging  in  terror  over  their  uncertain 

133 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

tooting.  If  it  got  much  deeper!  But  it  would  not, 
could  not,  should  not.  Sure  enough,  it  did  not.  The 
water  grew  shallower,  and  when  it  had  fallen  to  his 
thighs  he  released  the  horses  and  climbed  into  the 
buggy  again. 

"Thank  God!"  said  he,  fervently. 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  she  impulsively 
laid  her  hand  upon  his  sodden  coat. 

"You  are  so  wet — and  cold!"  said  she,  pityingly. 

"Except  right  there!"  he  answered,  for  her  hand  was 
still  upon  him. 

She  said  nothing,  and  he  could  not  see  her  face.  He 
was  content,  though,  when  he  helped  her  down  at  her 
gate,  after  ten  o'clock,  and  she  said: 

"Now  get  out  of  those  wet  clothes  instantly  and 
drink  something  to  warm  you  up,  and  go  to  bed,  or  I 
shall  never  forgive  myself." 


XV 

THE  arguments  in  the  murder  trial  about  which 
Davenport  had  spoken  to  Josephine  happened  to 
fall  on  one  of  Bertha's  lesson  days.  She  appeared  at 
-her  teacher's  in  even  more  than  her  usual  splendor,  and 
announced  that  she  was  going  over  to  the  court-house 
to  hear  Davenport's  speech.  She  also  invited  Jose- 
phine and  Victoria  tc>go  with  her.  The  girls  hesitated, 
but  Bertha  assured  them  that  there  was  not  the  least 
impropriety  in  a  woman's  going.  Otherwise,  Morris 
would  certainly  not  have  suggested  that  she  herself  go, 
or  ask  them.  This  settled  it,  for  both  the  girls  were  curi- 
ous to  attend  a  court  and  to  hear  Davenport's  speech. 

The  court-house  square  was  fringed  with  teams  from 
the  country.  The  upper  windows,  they  could  see  from 
below,  were  packed  with  men  and  boys.  The  court- 
room was  already  filled  to  stifling,  and  overflowed  into 
the  corridor,  where  the  throng  pushed  and  jostled  for  a 
better  place,  and  craned  their  necks  and  tiptoed  for  a 
glimpse  inside.  The  prospect  for  the  three  girls  was  not 
encouraging,  and  the  Priestleys  hung  back  timidly.  But 
Bertha  had  privileges,  either  professional  or  personal; 
and  a  little  bullet-headed  deputy,  who  presently  burst 
out  of  the  press  like  a  shot  out  of  a  gun,  took  in  the 
situation  at  a  glance.  He  at  once  led  the  pretty,  scent- 
ed, rustling  trio  up  a  narrow,  winding  staircase  which 
had  an  air  of  privacy,  unlocked  a  door,  and  passed  them 
into  a  section  of  the  gallery  which  still  held  some  empty 
benches. 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

They  found  seats  in  the  first  row.  Below  them  lay 
the  awesome  mill  of  justice,  already  solemnly  grinding, 
but  whether  the  grist  was  life  or  death  no  one  could 
yet  say.  The  judge,  a  scholarly,  fatherly  old  man,  with 
thin,  white  hair,  sat  high  above  the  others,  and  with 
folded  hands  gravely  surveyed  the  flushed  and  eager 
crowd.  There  was  a  half -sorrowful  expression  on  his 
face  which  made  Josephine  shrink  back  a  little,  loath 
to  be  numbered  by  those  clear  eyes  among  the  curious 
women  gathered  there. 

At  the  judge's  left  sat  the  jury;  just  below  him,  the 
clerk  of  court;  and  just  below  the  clerk,  in  a  railed  en- 
closure, around  a  big  table  spread  with  books,  a  group 
of  people — lawyers,  witnesses,  and  court  officers. 

Among  these,  but  a  little  apart,  sat  Morris  Davenport 
and  Belotzerkowski,  the  Russian  Jew  on  trial  for  his  life. 
Time  was  when  people  smiled  at  that  name  and  fumbled 
it  with  their  tongues — when  the  man  first  appeared  in 
Tellfair,  looking  for  work.  But  no  one  saw  anything 
funny  in  the  name  now,  and  even  children  could  pro- 
nounce it.  For  it  had  sprung  into  a  sinister,  terrible 
familiarity  on  that  morning,  some  months  before,  when 
the  sun,  peeping  through  Alexander  Newhouse's  cur- 
tains, caught  the  farmer  in  bed  for  the  first  time  in  many 
years — in  bed,  cold  and  stark,  with  a  knife  in  his  heart. 

The  State's  attorney  had  finished  his  speech,  and, 
when  the  girls  arrived,  judge,  jury,  and  people  were  await- 
ing Davenport's  defence.  Yet  he  seemed  unconscious 
of  the  fact  and  sat  looking  over  some  notes,  his  back 
to  the  spectators,  his  head  propped  on  his  hand.  Jose- 
phine wondered  if  he  could  possibly  be  as  cool  as  he 
looked,  for  as  he  sat  there  he  might  only  have  been 
writing  out  that  little  advertisement  for  her  and  Vic- 
toria. As  she  looked,  and  the  silence  grew  more  tense, 
her  heart  began  to  palpitate  in  a  sort  of  sympathetic 
fear. 

136 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

But  if  judge,  jury,  and  people  were  waiting,  what  shall 
be  said  of  the  prisoner?  He  sat — if  one  may  speak  of 
such  a  shapeless,  inert  heap  as  sitting  —  with  drooped 
shoulders,  sunken  chest,  and  hanging  arms,  more  dum- 
my than  man.  His  eyes  only  were  alive.  To  these  all 
the  fires  of  life  seemed  to  have  retreated  from  his  miser- 
able, terrorized  body,  and  there  stood  at  bay,  burning 
like  peep-holes  in  a  seething  furnace. 

Yet  he  saw  neither  court  nor  crowd;  nor  the  jury,  who 
could  snuff  out  his  life  like  a  candle;  nor  the  afternoon 
shadows,  creeping  along  the  wall  like  the  slow-moving 
_finger  of  Fate;  nor  the  clock,  whose  busy  ticking  was 
edging  him,  possibly,  nearer  and  nearer  the  grave.  He 
knew  not  when  the  State's  attorney  rose  up  nor  when 
he  sat  down/and  the  lawyer's  pitiless  execrations  had 
fallen  upon  his  stupefied  senses  as  harmlessly  as  rain- 
drops on  granite. 

He  saw  only  Davenport's  thoughtful  face.  No  starv- 
ing hound  ever  eyed  morsel  of  meat  in  friendly  hands 
with  more  pathetic  eagerness  or  trembling  intensity 
than  this  wretched  prisoner  eyed  his  defender.  Not  a 
movement  of  the  latter  escaped  him.  Did  Davenport 
lift  his  pencil,  the  prisoner  brightened.  Maybe  it  was 
all  over!  Did  Davenport  open  a  book,  the  prisoner 
started.  Books  were  dark,  diabolical  enigmas  to  him, 
not  to  be  trusted  even  in  the  hands  of  his  protector. 
When  Davenport  whispered  something  to  the  turnkey, 
the  ignorant  Russian,  who  doubtless  regarded  his  jailer 
as  the  only  barrier  between  him  and  liberty,  grew  so 
excited  that  Davenport  had  to  quiet  him. 

But  the  climax  came  when  Morris  arose  and  crossed 
the  railed  space  to  address  the  jury.  A  ripple  of  excite- 
ment, arising  to  sharp  ejaculations  here  and  there,  ran 
through  the  audience;  for  the  long-haired,  unkempt,  un- 
washed Belotzerkowski,  seeing  his  guardian  leave  him, 
rolled  out  of  his  chair,  and,  after  a  stupid,  blinking, 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

bestial  stare  at  the  audience,  shambled  awkwardly  after 
Davenport,  like  a  huge  orang-outang  rather  than  a  man. 
The  turnkey  sprang  forward  and  seized  the  prisoner. 
Belotzerkowski  turned  upon  him  with  a  snarl,  and  for  an 
instant  trouble  threatened.  Then  Davenport,  turning 
at  the  commotion,  pointed  out  a  chair;  and  the  Russian, 
instantly  submissive  and  cowering,  sank  into  it  like  a 
trained  spaniel. 

Davenport's  speech  was  a  great  one,  everybody  said, 
and  so  Josephine  felt  as  she  listened.  It  seemed  hard- 
ly possible  that  this  man,  so  terribly  earnest,  standing 
there  in  that  grave  tribunal  of  justice,  pleading  for  a 
human  life,  could  be  he  who  had  chaffed  old  Billy  Man- 
derson,  or  sat  by  her  side  in  the  buggy  on  that  stormy 
night  and  joked  about  his  straw  hat.  She  knew  he  be- 
lieved the  prisoner  innocent,  in  spite  of  the  man's  al- 
most hideous  aspect,  and  he  had  told  her  why,  just  as 
he  was  telling  the  jury  now.  And  as  he  stood  there,  so 
clean,  so  straight  and  manly,  his  red  hair  clustering 
around  his  brow,  resolute  and  unafraid  when  all  others 
had  turned  in  loathing  from  the  wretched  being  he  was 
defending,  her  woman's  heart  went  straight  out  to  him. 

Yet  she  was  glad,  when  all  was  over,  to  fill  her  lungs 
again  with  the  comparatively  cool  and  pure  air  of  the 
corridor.  She  had  fancied  that  the  court -room  was 
tainted  with  the  foul  breath  of  Belotzerkowski's  dun- 
geon; and  so  deeply  had  the  bestial  fear  and  revolting 
besottedness  of  the  prisoner  been  burned  into  her  brain 
that  she  yearned  to  escape  from  the  scene. 

"  Let's  wait  in  the  register's  office  a  little  while,"  said 
Bertha.  "I  don't  think  it  will  take  the  jury  long  to 
settle  Belotzerkowski's  fate." 

She  led  the  way  familiarly  into  a  cool,  high -ceiled 
room,  furnished  with  large  leather  chairs  and  high,  slant- 
ing desks  strewn  with  big  folios.  At  present  the  place 
was  empty,  as  doubtless  was  every  other  office  in  the 

138 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

building  at  that  moment,  everybody  having  gone  to  hear 
the  end  of  the  trial. 

Bertha's  light  tone  jarred  on  Josephine's  taut  nerves, 
and  she  asked  with  some  reserve,  "What  makes  you 
think  it  won't  take  the  jury  long  to  decide?" 

"Because  all  the  evidence  is  against  him,  though 
it's  only  circumstantial,"  answered  Bertha,  learnedly. 
"Nobody  could  really  hope  to  save  him.  Morris  as 
good  as  said  so  himself." 

In  spite  of  this,  Josephine  was  by  no  means  per- 
suaded that  Davenport's  speech  was  a  perfunctory  per- 
formance. His  fervent,  solemn  tones  were  still  ringing 
too  loudly  in  her  ears.  With  no  mind  to  argue  the 
question,  however,  she  sank  into  one  of  the  comfortable 
chairs.  Bertha  led  Victoria  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  and,  opening  one  of  the  massive  volumes,  with 
a  girlish  pride  in  her  legal  knowledge,  she  naively  ex- 
plained how  mortgages,  deeds,  and  other  legal  instru- 
ments were  recorded. 

A  little  later  a  group  of  men  dropped  in,  discussing 
the  trial,  and  evidently  seeking  a  cooler  place  than  the 
court-room  in  which  to  await  the  verdict.  According 
to  them,  Belotzerkowski  was  by  no  means  yet  a  dead 
man ;  and,  had  he  not  been  such  a  Caliban  in  appearance, 
they  were  certain  Davenport  would  have  cleared  him. 
Then  followed  certain  complimentary  remarks  on  the 
young  lawyer's  masterly  defence,  which  made  Josephine 
proud  that  she  could  fairly  claim  him  as  a  friend. 

In  the  midst  of  this,  the  door  opened  once  more  and 
Davenport  himself  appeared.  He  halted  in  the  door- 
way and  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  face.  He  seem- 
ed about  to  withdraw,  at  sight  of  the  men,  but  they  were 
too  quick  for  him.  After  briefly  thanking  them  for 
their  compliments,  he  caught  sight  of  Josephine  and 
turned  towards  her.  His  step  lacked  its  usual  elas- 
ticity, and  he  looked  weary  and  relaxed.  His  eyes, 

139 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

though,  were  feverishly  bright.  He  was  still  the  ac- 
cused man's  advocate  rather  than  Josephine's  friend; 
the  atmosphere  of  the  court  still  enwrapped  him;  and 
as  he  sat  down  he  exhaled  a  sense  of  power  which  made 
the  young  woman  half  afraid.  She  would  not  have 
dared  to  joke  with  him  now. 

"You  have  been  working  hard  and  splendidly,  Mr. 
Davenport,"  said  she,  earnestly. 

"I  thank  you  very  much.  I  have  certainly  been 
working  hard." 

He  was  not  exactly  cold,  but  he  was  preoccupied  and 
possibly  a  little  indifferent.  So  far  from  resenting  this, 
though,  Josephine  respected  him  for  it.  The  man  who 
could  come  out  of  such  a  fiery  furnace  without  the  smell 
of  smoke  could  justly  be  suspected  of  trickery.  There 
was  surely  no  trickery  here.  Yet  Bertha's  words  an- 
noyed her. 

"Mr.  Davenport,"  said  she,  nerving  herself  to  the 
question,  "you  couldn't  possibly  make  such  a  noble 
effort  as  that  without  your  heart  in  it,  could  you?" 

He  looked  at  her  oddly.     "Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Not  that  I  doubted  your  sincerity,"  said  she,  quick- 
ly, almost  eagerly,  at  his  tone.  "  But  because — because 
Bertha  spoke  as  though  you  thought  this  man's  con- 
viction a  foregone  conclusion." 

"Did  you  think  so,  from  my  speech?"  he  asked,  and 
seemed  disappointed. 

"No,  no.  Anything  but  that.  I'm  palpitating  yet. 
Please  don't  be  severe  with  me.  I  know  I  ought  not  to 
have  said  it." 

"It's  all  right,"  said  he,  simply.  "I'm  a  little  sen- 
sitive about  such  things.  You  understand  that  there 
is  no  money  in  this  for  me.  The  man  is  penniless,  and  I 
was  appointed  by  the  court  to  defend  him.  Half  the 
people  don't  know  that,  and  the  other  half  probably 
think  that  I  was  trying  to  clear  a  guilty  man  in  order 

140 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

to  make  a  reputation."  He  paused  and  glanced  across 
the  room  at  Bertha  and  Victoria.  "  Bertha  has  a  habit 
of  jumbling  her  opinions  and  mine,  and  stamping  the 
mixture  with  my  seal." 

Bertha  was  still  explaining  the  big  books,  but  Vic- 
toria was  stealing  wistful  glances  at  her  sister  and 
Davenport,  as  if  she,  too,  wanted  to  hear  him  talk  about 
his  great  speech.  At  last  she  tore  Bertha  from  the 
books,  to  which  she  had  clung  with  unaccountable 
pertinacity.  Even  then  Bertha,  instead  of  going  over 
to  Davenport  and  Josephine,  halted  by  the  door  in  an 
uncertain  fashion,  and  seemed  about  to  leave.  It  struck 
both  sisters  as  strange  that  she  had  no  word  of  commen- 
dation for  her  friend  and  employer. 

"Are  you  going?"  asked  Josephine,  rising. 

"Yes,  I  think  I'd  better.  I  have  some  work  to  do  at 
the  office.  But  you  needn't  come. ' '  Bertha  smiled,  but 
there  was  a  constraint  about  her  which  did  not  escape 
Josephine's  eye. 

" Let  the  work  go,"  said  Davenport.  "The  office  has 
earned  a  rest." 

But  Bertha  shook  her  head  and  passed  abruptly  out. 
Josephine,  who  had  seen  some  of  the  workings  of 
Bertha's  mind,  stole  a  curious  glance  at  Davenport. 
But  if  he  was  at  all  disturbed  by  his  stenographer's 
behavior,  he  hid  his  feelings  admirably.  Still,  the  in- 
cident rather  dampened  the  party,  in  a  way;  Josephine 
and  Victoria  felt  a  little  out  of  place  without  Bertha, 
and  after  a  moment  Davenport  said,  glancing  at  his 
watch : 

"I  fancy  we  all  might  as  well  go.  The  jury  may  be 
out  for  hours.  The  longer  it  is  out,  the  more  auspicious 
it  is  for  me." 

"Let  us  go,  then,  by  all  means,"  said  Josephine. 
"Our  mere  presence  here  may  hasten  their  verdict,  if 
there  is  anything  in  mental  telegraphy." 

141 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

Davenport  walked  home  with  the  girls,  and  tarried 
a  moment  on  the  steps  with  Josephine  after  Victoria 
had  excused  herself  to  look  after  tea. 

"Did  you  go  over  there  this  afternoon  on  Bertha's 
invitation?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  and  knew  that  he  had  Bertha's 
abrupt  departure  in  mind. 

"Would  you  like  to  take  a  little  ride  to-morrow  after- 
noon?" he  asked,  after  a  moment.  "I  am  going  into 
the  country,  and  I  should  like  to  have  you  see  my 
father's  farm." 

"I  should  be  glad  to  "go,  but  I  am  afraid  I  can't.  I 
shall  be  busy  with  pupils  until  three  o'clock." 

"That  will  be  time  enough." 

"Then  I  shall  be  glad  to  go — provided  it  doesn't  look 
like  rain,"  she  added,  mischievously.  "  I  shall  be  ready 
by  a  quarter-past." 

That  night  Josephine  awoke  to  find  Victoria  sobbing, 
with  her  arms  around  her  neck. 

"Why,  Vic,  what  on  earth  is  the  matter?"  exclaimed 
Josephine,  in  alarm. 

"Oh,  Josie!"  whimpered  Victoria.  "I  dreamed  that 
that  horrible  Belotzerkowski  was  after  me." 

"Well,  he  isn't,"  said  Josephine,  soothingly.  "Morris 
Davenport  has  him  in  charge." 

At  the  breakfast-table  Victoria  asked,  when  her  noc- 
turnal performance  came  up,  "Last  night,  Jo,  did  you 
say  Mister  Davenport  to  me,  or  Morris  Davenport?" 

"I  don't  remember,"  answered  Josephine,  taking  a 
hasty  sip  of  coffee. 

But  she  did  remember.  And  when,  half  an  hour  later, 
she  received  a  brief  but  exultant  note  from  Davenport 
stating  that  the  jury  had  found  Belotzerkowski  not 
guilty,  she  was  very  happy. 


XVI 

DAVENPORT  was  thoroughly  vexed  over  Bertha's 
exhibition  in  the  register's  office.  That  she  should 
be  jealous  of  his  five-minute  talk  with  Josephine  was  al- 
most incredible,  but  he  knew  it  to  be  true;  and  as  he  sat 
in  the  office  of  the  Basley  House,  smoking  his  evening 
cigar  and  reflecting  on  the  events  of  the  day,  he  said  to 
himself,  emphatically,  "Thank  God,  I'm  a  free  man!" 

By  morning  he  was  in  a  softer  mood — especially  af- 
ter receiving  the  jury's  verdict.  Bertha  had  struggled 
visibly,  the  day  before,  with  her  weakness,  and  he  half 
regretted  the  invitation  he  had  given  Miss  Priestley  to 
go  riding.  The  invitation  had  really  nothing  to  do 
with  Bertha  or  her  conduct.  But  when  he  went  out 
to  his  father's  he  usually  took  Bertha,  whom  his  mother 
liked;  and  he  fancied  she  would  expect  to  go  to-day, 
although  he  had  said  nothing  to  her  about  it. 

"  I  am  going  out  to  Meigs's  now,  Bertha,  and  father's," 
said  he,  a  little  before  three,  "and  I  probably  sha'n't 
be  back  before  six.  You  can  lock  up  at  five." 

Miss  Priestley's  name  was  on  his  tongue.  He  wanted 
no  secrecy  about  her  going.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
to  mention  her  now  would  sound  like  an  apology,  and 
no  apology  was  due.  He  therefore  said  nothing. 

"Very  well,"  answered  Bertha,  coolly,  without  look- 
ing up.  "I  have  an  engagement  at  five,  so  it  will  suit 
my  plans."  Which  was  equivalent  to  saying  that  to 
take  her  with  him,  as  usual,  would  not  have  suited 
her  plans. 

U3 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

As  Davenport  and  Josephine  bowled  swiftly  along  the 
smooth,  white  turnpike  behind  his  favorite  horse,  he  was 
thoroughly  happy.  He  was  probably  not  yet  conscious 
that  there  was  something  in  the  woman  at  his  side 
which  always  made  him  happy.  With  her,  he  was  al- 
ways up  to  pitch,  as  it  were.  She  seemed,  by  some 
subtle  attraction,  to  draw  to  the  surface  the  best  that 
was  in  him. 

"That  is  the  Witch's  Caldron,"  said  he,  pointing  out 
one  of  the  isolated  groups  of  great  rocks  which  dot  the 
northern  prairie  of  Illinois  and  are  probably  of  glacial 
deposit.  The  one  in  question  was  on  the  bank  of  Rock 
River,  half  a  mile  away. 

"Don't  I  know  it!"  she  exclaimed,  joyously.  "We 
have  picnicked  there  —  our  family  —  so  many,  many 
times.  The  next  time  you  happen  to  go  there,  I  want 
you  to  climb  the  rocks  and  look  on  top.  You  will  see 
all  our  initials  carved  there,  with  a  border  around  them. 
Father  did  it  one  evening,  and  I  shall  never  forget  the 
beautiful  sunset  that  day." 

"Suppose  we  drive  over  now,"  said  he,  boyishly.  " It 
won't  take  ten  minutes." 

"Do  you  mean  it?"  she  asked,  eagerly.  But  he  had 
no  sooner  turned  the  horse  by  way  of  answer  than  a 
curious  revulsion  took  place  in  her,  and  she  said,  "Not 
to-day,  Mr.  Davenport,  if  you  won't  think  it  strange. 
Some  time  we'll  go,  and  then  I'll  tell  you  why  I  didn't 
want  to  go  to-day." 

But  the  moisture  shining  in  her  eyes  had  already  told 
him.  Too  many  of  those  dear  initials  were  now  also 
cut  in  tombstones. 

"We  lawyers,"  said  he,  after  a  decent  silence,  "deal 
much  with  the  seamy  side  of  life,  and  too  often  are  birds 
of  ill  omen.  But  to-day  I  am  not.  I  am  going  to  stop 
and  see  a  man  who  suffers  from  rheumatism  and  must 
go  South.  His  farm  is  worth  six  thousand  dollars.  It 

144 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

is  mortgaged  for  four  thousand,  and  foreclosure  would 
have  been  made  in  less  than  four  weeks.  The  farm 
would  then  have  been  sold  at  auction  and  would  have 
brought,  perhaps,  enough  to  pay  the  mortgage  and  in- 
terest. A  few  days  ago,  however,  I  happened  to  strike 
a  man  who  wanted  just  such  a  farm,  and  who  thought 
six  thousand  dollars  a  fair  price.  He  signed  the  papers 
yesterday,  and  I  have  them  in  my  pocket  now  for  the 
owner  to  sign.  It  will  surprise  him,  too,  for  the  buyer 
did  not  seem  at  all  favorable  to  the  place  when  I  took 
him  out  to  see  it." 

"I  suppose  the  family  will  be  very  grateful  to  you," 
said  Josephine,  slyly,  "and  I  shall  have  an  opportunity 
to  see  that  side  of  a  lawyer's  life  which  is  not  seamy." 

"You  won't  see  much.  People  of  their  type  are  not 
emotional.  I  once  happened  to  be  driving  by  this  man's 
farm — Homer  Meigs  is  his  name — when  his  little  four- 
year-old  boy  ran  into  his  reaper  and  lost  his  leg  just 
below  the  knee.  The  father  carried  the  child  into  the 
house  to  its  mother,  and  it  is  a  fact  that  I  have  seen  more 
fuss  made  over  a  pup  whose  tail  somebody  had  rocked 
on  than  they  made  over  that  limp,  white -faced  little 
boy." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Davenport,  that  is  heartless!"  exclaimed  Jo- 
sephine. 

"  No,  just  true,"  said  he.  "They  loved  their  child  and 
proved  it  well,  but  it  was  not  their  way  to  make  a  fuss. 
I  ruined  a  good  horse  in  running  a  doctor  down,  but  it 
took  me  three  hours  at  that.  Every  minute  of  that 
time  the  father  sat  with  his  hands  gripped  tightly 
around  the  poor  little  fellow's  leg  to  keep  him  from 
bleeding  to  death.  As  a  result,  his  arms  were  partially 
paralyzed  for  three  years;  and  the  rheumatism  from 
which  he  suffers  to-day  dates  from  that  terrible  hour. 
The  mother,  meanwhile,  sat  by  and  fanned  the  little 
one  and  wiped  the  moisture  from  its  brow." 

MS 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Oh,  how  could  she  stand  it!" 

Davenport  smiled  grimly. 

"  She  was  built  to  stand  such  things.  If  this  mortgage 
had  been  foreclosed  and  the  family  turned  out  into  the 
road,  she  would  have  stood  that,  too.  When  Meigs  goes 
down  South  and  loses  what  little  money  he  will  realize 
from  the  farm,  as  I  fear  he  will,  and  they  find  themselves 
paupers  in  a  strange  land,  she  will  stand  that,  too.  That 
is  why  I  don't  expect  her  to  weep  on  my  neck  in  grati- 
tude to-day." 

As  they  drove  up  to  the  dilapidated  farm-house,  a 
pack  of  curs  rushed  barking  out,  but  retired  yelping 
after  a  taste  of  Davenport's  whip.  A  slatternly  wom- 
an, not  old,  but  gray,  appeared  in  the  open  door,  ac- 
companied by  a  band  of  ragged  children.  She  looked 
as  if  neither  grief  nor  joy  could  wring  a  tear  from  her 
bone-dry  eyes. 

Among  the  children,  sure  enough,  was  a  dirty-faced, 
hatless,  red-headed  urchin  with  a  wooden  leg  from  the 
knee  down.  He  looked  like  a  neighborhood  terror,  and 
stumped  swaggeringly  out  among  the  weeds  in  the  door- 
yard,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  whistled  be- 
tween his  teeth. 

"Where's  Homer,  Mrs.  Meigs?"  asked  Davenport  from 
the  buggy. 

"He's  chorin'  around  the  barn,  I  reckon,"  she  an- 
swered, fretfully,  eying  the  well-dressed  Josephine  with 
covert  hostility.  "  Leastways,  he  was  there.  I  suppose 
he's  down  in  the  wood-lot  across  the  creek  by  this  time, 
now  that  somebody  wants  him.  Go  find  your  pap,  Ed- 
die, and  tell  him  Lawyer  Davenport  wants  to  see  him." 

Not  only  Eddie,  but  two  or  three  others,  went  at  full 
tilt;  but  Peg-leg,  as  the  boys  had  dubbed  him,  was  in  the 
lead  in  spite  of  his  maimed  condition,  his  little  jacket 
streaming  out  behind,  and  his  shaggy  head  bobbing  rap- 
idly up  and  down  on  his  mismated  legs. 

146 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"I  suppose  it's  something  about  the  place,"  said  Mrs. 
Meigs,  as  they  waited. 

"Yes,  I  have  sold  it  to  Mr.  Andrews  for  six  thousand 
dollars,"  answered  Davenport,  nudging  Josephine  to  note 
the  effect. 

Something  very  like  blood  leaped  into  the  woman's 
sallow  cheek,  but  it  was  not  until  after  she  had  partly 
untangled  one  of  the  little  girls'  pony-like  manes  that 
she  spoke. 

"I  suppose  we  ought  to  be  thankful,  though  it's  no 
more  than  the  place  is  wuth." 

When  he  saw  Meigs  coming,  Davenport  got  down 
and  tied  the  horse,  and  helped  Josephine  out,  whom  he 
wanted  for  a  witness.  Meigs  was  a  sunken  -  chested, 
weary  -  looking  man,  with  a  straw  in  his  mouth;  but 
there  was  a  gleam  of  hope  in  his  eyes  at  Davenport's 
presence. 

"He's  sold  the  place" — said  Mrs.  Meigs,  briefly — "to 
Andrews,  for  six  thousand." 

"Is  it  sure?"  asked  Meigs,  and  Josephine  thought  his 
voice  trembled. 

"As  sure  as  death,"  answered  Davenport.  "I  have 
the  papers  in  my  pocket." 

"Then  I'm  mightily  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Davenport, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  commission,"  answered  the 
man. 

They  entered  the  dirty,  bare  house.  When  both  hus- 
band and  wife  had  affixed  their  names  to  the  instrument, 
he  looked  at  her  with  a  wild  gleam  in  his  eye,  which  one 
might  call  hope. 

"Well,  I  guess  that  settles  it  now,  and  we  go  South." 

For  answer,  she  unexpectedly  burst  into  tears,  and 
covered  her  face  with  her  apron. 

"This  is  the  only  place  on  earth  we  kin  call  home. 
All  my  babies  was  born  here,  and  I  hoped  to  be  buried 
here." 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

Meigs  glanced  helplessly  at  Davenport.  He  had  sel- 
dom seen  his  wife  cry,  and  it  rather  alarmed  him. 

"You'll  have  another  place  to  call  home  soon,  in  a 
section  where  your  husband's  health  will  be  better  than 
it  is  here,"  said  Davenport.  "As  for  the  other,  it 
doesn't  make  much  difference  where  we  are  buried." 

"  No,  it  don't,  as  long  as  we  are  buried.  And  the  soon- 
er the  better,  I  reckon,"  said  she.  "  Susie,  drop  that  kit- 
ten. You'll  be  all  full  of  fleas  again." 

Josephine  was  silent  and  thoughtful  for  some  minutes 
after  leaving  the  farm-house.  Davenport  naturally  laid 
it  to  the  scene  she  had  just  witnessed,  but  it  was  not 
wholly  that,  it  developed. 

"Did  the  man  who  bought  this  farm  know  that  it 
would  probably  be  sold  at  auction  in  a  short  time?"  she 
asked,  finally. 

"Probably  not." 

"You  didn't  tell  him?" 

"No." 

He  stole  a  glance  at  her  sweet,  sober  face.  He  knew 
what  was  in  her  mind.  He  could  have  made  a  good 
argument  in  defence  of  his  conduct ;  he  could  have  cited 
precedent  after  precedent  for  his  act  from  every  depart- 
ment of  the  commercial  world.  But  somehow  he  felt 
that  they  would  fall  flat  with  her.  So  he  fell  to  think- 
ing, instead,  of  the  ennobling  influence  a  good  woman 
has  over  a  man,  and  the  thought  was  as  fresh  and  in- 
spiring as  if  he  had  discovered  it.  In  a  sense,  he  had. 

"I  am  glad  those  poor  people  got  all  their  farm  was 
worth,"  said  she,  a  moment  after,  "  which  they  wouldn't 
have  got  if  it  had  been  sold  at  auction." 

He  took  it  as  forgiveness  of  his  deception  of  Andrews 
with  regard  to  the  impending  foreclosure. 

It  was  glorious,  when  they  reached  the  Davenport 
farm,  to  go  rolling  across  pasture  and  meadow  in  a 
buggy,  with  no  sign  of  a  road  anywhere,  flushing  prairie- 

148 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

chickens,  scattering  sheep,  and  arousing  mild  curiosi- 
ty in  the  sleek  Alderney  cows.  Josephine  had  thought 
a  buggy  as  dependent  upon  a  road  as  a  locomotive 
upon  rails.  Davenport  proved  it  otherwise.  He  ford- 
ed creeks,  threaded  gullies,  shot  through  unexpected 
openings  in  fences,  climbed  hills,  descended  into  valleys, 
and  wound  swiftly  through  a  cool  wood.  In  this  last,  it 
is  true,  there  was  a  semblance  of  a  road;  but  Josephine 
expected  momentarily  to  be  brought  up  against  a  tree, 
and  begged  him  to  drive  slower.  They  finally  halted 
and  alighted  in  a  partially  timbered  bottom-land,  where 
a  thick  carpet  of  violets  made  Josephine  cry  out  with 
delight.  In  a  few-  minutes  they  had  gathered  all  they 
could  carry. 

"I  feel  like  a  child  again,  when  I  used  to  read  about 
the  farm — the  cows  and  horses  and  hay-mow  and  the  old 
spring-house,"  said  she,  happily,  on  the  way  home.  "  Oh, 
I  think  the  ideal  life  could  be  lived  on  a  place  like  your 
father's,  with  your  own  land  as  far  as  your  eye  could 
reach,  and  the  pure  air  in  your  nostrils  every  minute  of 
the  day,  and  money  enough  not  to  have  to  worry  about 
crops." 

"  In  some  respects,  it  is  the  sanest  life  a  man  can  live," 
said  Davenport,  smiling  at  her  enthusiasm,  "and  is 
doubtless  preferable,  in  father's  case,  to  the  great  major- 
ity of  lives.  Father's  case,  of  course,  is  exceptional. 
He  represents  one  extreme  of  farming;  Homer  Meigs, 
for  instance,  the  other.  My  parents  have  nearly  every 
luxury  in  their  home  which  city  people  have,  besides  a 
great  many  that  city  people  can't  have.  Yet  there  is  a 
lack  of  social  intercourse,  and  there  are  other  serious  dis- 
advantages, and  they  talk  more  strongly  each  year  of 
'retiring'  and  coming  to  town  to  live.  Their  hearts 
are  wrapped  around  the  old  place,  and  they  can't 
bear  the  thought  yet  of  seeing  it  in  a  tenant's  hands 
— they  would  never  sell  it,  of  course.  But  some  day 

149 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

they  will  put  it  in  a  tenant's  hands  and  come  to 
town." 

Josephine  shook  her  head  disapprovingly. 

"They  could  have  social  intercourse  out  there.  They 
could  invite  their  friends  out." 

"They  could  anywhere  else  but  in  America.  Every- 
body works  here,  and  is  too  busy  to  go  even  that  far  for 
social  purposes  except  on  rare  occasions." 

"But  do  you  think  they  would  be  happier  in  town?" 

"I  don't  know.  It  is  hard  to  change  the  current  of 
life  at  their  age.  We  have  many  retired  farmers  in  Tell- 
fair,  and  I  think  some  of  them  ought  to  be  back  on  the 
farm.  They  have  converted  their  town  lots  into  minia- 
ture farms,  and  you  can  see  them  pottering  about  the 
yard  and  barn  from  morning  to  night,  hungry  for  work. 
Yet  I  think  most  of  them  enjoy  life,  especially  after  they 
have  learned  to  get  up  at  seven  or  eight  o'clock  instead 
of  four  or  five." 

"If  Tellfair  is  an  improvement  on  the  farm,  why 
wouldn't  a  city  be  an  improvement  on  Tellfair?"  she 
asked. 

"It  is,  in  many  respects." 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  a  city,  then?" 

"That  question  has  disturbed  me  more  than  once," 
he  answered,  seriously.  "Shall  a  man  be  a  big  toad  in 
a  small  puddle  or  a  small  toad  in  a  big  puddle?  I'm 
here,  I  suppose,  more  by  chance  than  anything  else. 
My  ancestors  have  hewn  the  way  and  I  am  walking  in 
it.  Necessity  has  not  driven  me  to  the  city  as  it  has 
many." 

"But  haven't  you  wanted  to  go?" 

"No,  for  I  have  no  reason  to  suppose  that  I  could 
better  my  condition  there.  I  might  make  more  money, 
but  I  should  also  spend  more.  Of  course,  fortunes  are 
made  there  that  could  never  be  made  here;  but  where 
one  succeeds,  thousands  fail.  Besides,  the  city  is  a 

150 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

place  of  few  masters  and  many  slaves,  and  I  don't  like 
slavery." 

"I  think  you  could  be  one  of  the  masters,"  said  she, 
simply. 

"I  don't  know.  I'm  one  here,  in  a  way,  and  a  bird 
in  the  hand  is  worth  two  in  the  bush.  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  hate  a  city.  I  hate  a  social  condition  where  a 
man  may  never  know  his  next-door  neighbor's  name,  al- 
though I  understand  that  it  has  to  be  so.  I  hate  to 
have  simply  a  wall  or  floor  or  ceiling  between  me  and 
people  in  whom  I  have  no  more  interest  than  I  have  in  a 
Hottentot.  I  was  in  the  city  the  other  day  and  took 
dinner  with  a  classmate  who  lives  in  a  flat.  There  was 
a  funeral  in  the  building  that  day.  The  coffin  was 
carried  down  the  same  steps  and  out  the  same  door  that 
my  friend  uses  every  day.  Do  you  suppose  he  knew 
who  was  dead,  or  whether  it  was  man,  woman,  or  child? 
No.  Now  that  may  be  all  right  for  people  brought  up 
to  it — it  didn't  seem  to  affect  him;  but  it  won't  do  for 
me.  It  depresses  me.  I  like  to  know  my  butcher  and 
grocer,  and  their  families.  I  like  to  know  the  man  who 
comes  into  my  office,  whether  he  is  rich  or  poor,  sick  or 
well,  happy  or  unhappy.  If  he  has  had  a  child  recently 
born  or  buried,  I  like  to  know  it."  He  paused,  and  add- 
ed, laughing,  "  Possibly  I  may  impress  you  as  being  an 
ideal  old  lady." 

"No,  indeed,"  said  she,  quickly.  "I  agree  with  you 
in  all  that.  Yet  we  people  out  here  do  not  have  the 
advantages  of  city  people  in  the  way  of  culture — music, 
drama,  lectures,  and  such  things." 

"No,"  he  admitted. 

"And  there  is  a  certain  stimulus  in  the  city  that  is 
lacking  here." 

"Yes.  But  I  believe  it  is  secured  at  the  cost  of  some- 
thing else  fully  as  valuable.  In  the  city  a  man's  charac- 
ter is  not  developed  evenly.  There  is  too  much  speci- 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

alization.  The  commercial  sense  must  be  keen,  for  it 
is  tested  daily,  but  the  rest  doesn't  matter  much.  Think 
of  the  thousands  in  Chicago  who  are  identified  with  no 
church,  no  lodge,  no  club,  no  social  organization,  no 
anything — who  don't  even  vote,  are  never  called  upon 
to  exercise  their  public  spirit,  and  are  nonentities  every- 
where except  in  their  places  of  business.  They  live 
in  good  houses,  too,  wear  good  clothes,  and  eat  the  fat 
of  the  land." 

"But  is  the  proportion  any  larger  than  in  Tellfair?" 
"I  think  it  is.  The  nonentities  here  are  the  abject 
poor.  They  would  be  poor  in  Chicago  or  anywhere  else. 
I  mean  to  say  that  there  is  something  about  a  great  city 
which  seems  to  capture  all  the  forces  of  the  average  man 
and  take  them  in  one  direction,  instead  of  allowing  them 
to  work  naturally  in  all  directions.  Of  course,  there  are 
thousands  of  people  in  Chicago  that  that  doesn't  apply 
to;  and  it  is  also  true,  perhaps,  that  the  city  is  the  home 
of  the  most  successful  people  in  all  walks  of  life — the 
giants.  I  am  talking  now  of  the  average  man." 


XVII 

JOSEPHINE  arranged  her  violets  in  a  bowl  and  set 
them  on  the  piano.  There  they  still  sat  on  the  fol- 
lowing Tuesday,  when  Bertha  Congreve  came  to  take  her 
lesson. 

"My  violets  are  about  gone,"  observed  Josephine,  as 
Bertha  glanced  at  the  bowl. 

"Where  did  you  find  so  many?"  asked  Bertha. 

"Mr.  Davenport  and  I  gathered  them  on  his  father's 
farm,  last  Saturday.  There  were  millions  of  them,  I 
should  say.  I  never  saw  such  a  beautiful  sight  in  my 
life  before." 

"Last  Saturday?"  said  Bertha,  with  a  queer  expres- 
sion. 

"Yes,  last  Saturday  afternoon,"  said  Josephine,  won- 
deringly,  for  Bertha's  face  was  quite  pale. 

"How  stupid  of  me!"  exclaimed  the  other.  "Do 
you  know  what  I  was  thinking  of?  I  was  wonder- 
ing how  you  could  have  picked  violets  and  attended 
the  trial  on  the  same  day.  But  the  trial  was  on  Fri- 
day." 

But  Josephine  was  not  quite  satisfied  with  the  ex- 
planation, which  rang  false.  Moreover,  Bertha  went 
through  her  lesson  in  a  blundering,  preoccupied  way. 

Bertha  went  home  instead  of  returning  to  the  office. 
She  told  her  mother  that  she  was  not  well,  and  went  at 
once  to  her  room,  where  she  threw  herself  upon  the  bed. 
She  did  not  cry,  but  for  three  hours  she  was  torn  and 
scarred  by  the  black,  bitter  imaginings  of  her  heated 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

brain.  At  that  moment  she  thought  Davenport  the 
prince  of  deceivers. 

About  five  o'clock  she  heard  the  door-bell  ring,  and  a 
moment  later  her  mother  entered. 

"Morris  is  here,  Bert.  He  did  not  know  what  had 
become  of  you.  He  says  he  dictated  some  important 
letters  to  you,  which  must  be  got  off  to-night;  but  if  you 
are  too  sick  to  transcribe  them  out  he  will  do  it  him- 
self." 

"Tell  him  that  I  can't  possibly  go  back,  or  I  shouldn't 
have  come  home,"  answered  Bertha,  faintly. 

But  in  less  than  two  minutes  she  conceived  the  notion 
that  it  would  be  a  noble,  a  heroic,  thing  for  her,  stricken 
as  she  was — by  just  what  she  did  not  know — to  get  up 
and  go  down  to  the  office  and  get  out  those  paltry  let- 
ters for  the  man  who  had  deceived  her  so  cruelly. 

Davenport  was  sitting  at  the  typewriter  and  sparring 
with  the  keys  in  a  blundering,  uncertain  fashion  when 
she  came  in.  He  looked  up  with  surprise. 

"I  didn't  mean  for  you  to  come  down,"  said  he. 
"Didn't  your  mother  tell  you?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  thought  I  had  better  come,"  she  answered, 
languidly,  as  she  removed  her  hat. 

"I  think  you  had  better  go  back.  You  don't  look 
well.  I'll  take  care  of  these  letters.  Only  two  or  three 
are  important." 

"  I  can  do  it  as  well  as  not,  now  that  I  am  here." 

"But  there  wasn't  any  need  for  you  to  be  here,"  he 
answered,  sharply,  resenting  her  tone. 

"Morris,"  said  she,  suddenly,  drawing  herself  up  in 
pale,  statuesque  dignity,  "I  can  stand  coming  down  to 
the  office  and  working  when  I  am  sick,  but  I  can't  stand 
your  speaking  to  me  in  that  way.  You  have  done  it 
more  than  once  of  late,  and  it — it  simply  breaks  my 
heart."  Her  nostrils  were  quivering. 

Davenport  instantly  repented  his  words.  Yet  he  still 
154 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

resented  her  unjust  implication,  and  half  suspected  that 
she  was  shamming. 

"  Do  you  really  mean  that  I  have  been  unkind  to  you, 
Bertha?"  he  asked. 

"Don't  you  know  that  you  have?"  she  returned,  trag- 
ically. 

"Upon  my  honor,  I  do  not.  If  I  have  been,  I  am 
sorry;  and  you  will  have  no  cause  to  complain  in  the 
future.  I  am  sorry  you  thought  you  had  to  come  down 
here.  I  am  sure  Volley  misunderstood  me.  But  I  don't 
want  you  to  get  out  these  letters,  and  I  am  not  going  to 
let  you.  Sit  down  there.  I'll  telephone  for  the  horse 
when  I'm  done  and  take  you  home." 

Fifteen  minutes  later  she  was  seated  beside  him  in 
his  runabout.  She  was  by  no  means  mollified,  however, 
and  racked  her  brain  for  a  way  to  inform  him,  without 
betraying  herself,  that  she  knew  of  his  excursion  with 
Miss  Priestley.  Davenport's  horse,  though,  was  fast,  and 
the  distance  was  short,  and  they  were  at  the  horse- 
block before  the  delicate  problem  was  solved. 

"Can  you  come  around  to-night?"  she  asked,  as  he 
helped  her  down. 

"I  don't  see  how  I  can.  I  have  an  engagement,"  he 
answered,  as  regretfully  as  a  man  could  who  felt  no 
regret. 

"  I  have  something  important  to  tell  you,"  she  added, 
darkly. 

She  did  have  some  wild  notion  at  that  moment,  al- 
though it  had  not  occurred  before,  to  tell  him  that 
she  did  not  consider  him  bound  to  her — that  if  he  pre- 
ferred Josephine  Priestley's  society  to  hers,  he  was  free 
to  have  it. 

"Won't  to-morrow  night  do?"  he  asked.  He  had  had 
some  experience  with  her  "important"  communications. 

"Where  are  you  going  to-night?"  she  demanded,  rude- 
ly, and  without  a  note  of  apology  in  her  voice. 

155 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

He  hesitated  an  instant.  There  was  temper  under 
that  red  hair,  but  it  seldom  escaped  him. 

"I  am  going  to  see  Miss  Priestley,"  he  answered, 
quietly. 

She  looked  at  him  coldly,  steadily,  venomously. 

"You  refuse  me  for  her?"  she  asked,  fairly  trem- 
bling. 

"I  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  have  an  engagement 
with  her  that  I  am  bound  in  honor  to  keep.  I'll  come 
to  see  you  to-morrow  night,  if  you  have  something  to 
tell  me." 

"You  may  come,  but  I  shall  have  nothing  to  tell  you 
then.  It  may  not  be  so  important  as  I  thought,"  she 
added,  resignedly.  "Some  things  that  I  used  to  think 
important,  and  you,  too,  don't  seem  to  be  important  any 
more." 

"That's  all  foolishness,  Bertha,"  said  he,  lightly. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  haven't  changed  tow- 
ards me?"  she  asked,  sternly. 

"Certainly  I  haven't  changed.  What  should  change 
me?  I  am  just  as  good  a  friend  of  yours  as  I  ever  was." 
He  used  the  word  "friend"  advisedly.  "But  I  think 
you  have  changed.  I  don't  know  what  has  got  into  you 
of  late." 

"Nothing  has  got  into  me.  It's  all  in  you,"  she  an- 
swered, bitterly. 

"Well,  let's  not  quarrel  about  it.  That  won't  help 
matters  any." 

"  I  don't  wonder  at  your  not  wanting  to  quarrel.  You 
haven't  the  heart  for  a  quarrel.  What  you  have  done 
pinches  your  conscience.  You  know  you  haven't  any 
case.  You  prefer  to  go  your  way  without  reminders  of 
your  unkindness,  deceit,  and  neglect." 

This  indictment,  delivered  in  short,  emphatic  periods, 
like  hammer  blows,  and  with  peculiar  virulence,  made 
Davenport's  blood  tingle.  There  was  just  enough  truth 

156 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

in  it  to  make  him  smart,  and  enough  untruth  to  make 
him  indignant.  Yet  he  kept  himself  well  in  hand. 

"Name  a  single  instance  of  unkindness,  deceit,  01 
neglect  on  my  part,"  said  he. 

"There  are  things  one  feels  but  can't  name." 

The  truth  of  the  remark  touched  him,  though  he  did 
not  admit  its  present  application.  He  knew,  too,  in  his 
heart  that  the  woman  before  him  had  some  cause  to  feel 
aggrieved,  although  he  did  not  see  how  he  could  admit 
it  without  her  taking  advantage  of  it. 

"I'll  talk  this  over  with  you  to-morrow  night,  Ber- 
tha," said  he,  friendlily.  "Neither  of  us  is  in  a  mood 
for  it  now.  And  you  will  tell  me  that  other  thing  then, 
won't  you?" 

"No,  I  have  decided  not  to  tell  that,"  she  answered, 
firmly.  "I  may  some  time." 

He  rode  away  in  a  decidedly  critical  mood  with  him- 
self. The  falseness  of  his  position  was  becoming  plainer 
every  day.  To  assure  a  woman  whom  he  regarded  only 
as  a  friend  that  he  had  not  changed,  when  he  knew  that 
she  regarded  him  as  a  lover,  was  not  a  pleasing  act  for  a 
man  with  a  conscience.  He  was  insisting  that  he  was 
yet  her  friend,  while  she  wanted  to  make  him  say  that 
he  was  yet  her  lover.  Lover  of  hers  he  had  never  been 
— but  how  could  he  tell  her  so?  How  could  he  retract 
avowals  he  had  never  made,  or  ask  to  be  released  from 
engagements  into  which  he  had  never  entered? 

Yet  something  must  be  done.  There  were  no  avowals 
or  engagements,  but  there  was  something  which  Bertha 
had  accepted  in  lieu  of  them — his  little  attentions  and 
kindnesses.  How  much  of  this  was  he  responsible  for? 
Much  of  it  was  chargeable  to  their  official  relations  and 
to  his  intimacy  with  the  family.  Yet  there  was  one  fact 
which  he  could  not  forget,  and  which  he  could  not  think 
of  without  a  kind  of  self -execration.  That  was  that 
there  had  been  a  time  when  he  regarded  this  woman 

J57 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

as  a   possible   wife,   whether  he   had   told   her   so   or 
not. 

He  ground  his  teeth  at  his  past  blindness,  and  cursed 
himself  for  a  fool.  At  the  same  time,  he  sternly  set  him- 
self against  any  more  weakness.  If  he  had  hurt  her, 
he  was  very,  very  sorry.  But  pity  should  not  do  duty 
for  love.  If  she  fancied  that  he  loved  her,  he  must  show 
her  that  he  did  not.  He  need  not  rudely  undeceive  her, 
he  argued.  He  could  gently,  imperceptibly,  draw  away 
from  her.  After  a  while  there  would  be  a  gulf  between 
them,  and  she  would  scarcely  know  how  or  whence  it 
came.  She  would  scarcely  realize,  he  hoped,  that  it  had 
not  always  been  there. 


XVIII 

A?TER  a  month's  trial,  the  process  of  impercepti- 
bly drawing  away  from  Bertha  could  not  be  pro- 
nounced a  success.  Davenport  treated  her  with  studied 
kindness,  but  avoided  with  equal  care  the  first  step  be- 
yond. He  still  took  her  riding  and  still  called  on  her, 
but  not  as  often  as  before;  and  he  divested  this  inter- 
course as  far  as  possible  of  any  personal  significance. 
He  was  merely  her  benevolent  employer,  her  parents' 
friend,  and  her  friend. 

At  first  Bertha  seemed  puzzled.  He  caught  her  more 
than  once  studying  him  with  wistful,  thoughtful  eyes, 
and  the  sight  wellnigh  betrayed  him  into  weakness 
again.  But  after  a  while  she  apparently  adjusted  her- 
self to  the  change.  She  took  on  a  sedate,  dignified  mien 
in  his  presence.  Her  little,  playful  familiarities  fell  away 
from  her  as  leaves  fall  from  a  frost-bitten  tree.  At  the 
same  time,  the  rugged  strength  of  trunk  and  limbs  came 
into  view,  but  the  nakedness  gave  Davenport  a  pang. 

During  this  month  he  rather  avoided  Miss  Priestley. 
His  motive  was  a  complex  one,  but  it  may  be  said  that 
his  self-respect  was  suffering.  In  his  lifetime  he  had 
seen,  perhaps,  four  women  whom  he  thought  he  could 
love.  Bertha  was  the  fourth,  and"  on  trial  he  had  failed. 
A  distrust  of  his  own  heart  had  sprung  up  in  him,  and 
in  this  mood  he  preferred  to  avoid  all  women,  and  es- 
pecially one. 

He  did  call,  though,  a  few  times  on  the  Priestley 
girls  for  the  sake  of  appearances,  and  once  on  business. 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

As  president  of  the  Tellfair  County  Fair  Association  it 
fell  to  him  to  select  a  young  woman  to  act  as  Ceres  in 
what  was  known  as  the  corn  festival.  The  selection 
was  nominally  in  the  hands  of  a  committee,  but  it  was 
understood  that  the  president  should  name  the  god- 
dess. He  had  called  to  ask  Josephine  to  act  in  this 
capacity. 

She  was  a  little  long  in  coming  down,  and  when  she 
entered  the  room,  radiantly  beautiful,  it  was  evident 
that  the  delay  had  been  over  her  dressing-table.  She 
was  also  a  little  flushed — perhaps  from  hurry. 

"Of  course,  I  prize  the  honor,  Mr.  Davenport,"  said 
she,  when  he  had  made  his  proposition.  "But  isn't 
there  some  one  else  more  deserving  of  it  than  I  — 
some  one  who  has  lived  here  longer  and  is  better 
known?" 

"Well,  yes.  There  is  Jane  Fleetwood.  She  has  lived 
here  fifty  years,  I  should  judge,  although  she  says  it's 
only  thirty-five,  and  I  think  every  man,  woman,  and 
child  in  Tellfair  knows  her." 

The  image  of  the  angular,  weather-beaten  spinster 
posing  as  Ceres  tickled  Josephine's  fancy;  and  though 
she  had  resolved  beforehand,  for  certain  reasons,  to  be 
rather  formal  with  Mr.  Davenport,  she  laughed  heartily. 

"  I  could  name  others  who  have  lived  here  even  long- 
er," he  added. 

"  You  know  what  I  meant.  I  meant  some  girl  whose 
family  is  identified  with  Tellfair,  not  an  interloper  like 
myself.  Frances  Marsh,  for  instance,  or  Kittie  Hay- 
ward,  or  Bertha  Congreve." 

"Doesn't  it  strike  you  that  Bertha  is  a  trifle  spare  to 
impersonate  a  goddess  of  plenty?" 

She  colored  a  little,  but  retorted  gayly,  "If  it's  mere 
bulk  you  are  after,  I  could  suggest  one  or  two  who 
would  prove  ideal." 

"  It  is  not  mere  bulk — it  is  you  we  are  after.  What's 
1 60 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

more,  we  are  going  to  have  you.  I  can't  even  mention 
the  numerous  qualifications  you  have  for  the  role — you 
would  accuse  me  of  gross  flattery.  But  I  shall  report 
to  the  committee  that  you  will  serve." 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to,"  she  answered,  slow- 
ly. "What  am  I  expected  to  do?" 

"Merely  to  sit  on  a  float  and  look  plenteous.  Your 
float  will  be  our  piece  de  resistance,  and  very  elaborate. 
I  shall  appoint  a  committee  of  three  ladies,  merely  as  a 
matter  of  form,  to  help  you  devise  a  costume.  You 
can  wear  what  you  please.  You  needn't  spare  expense, 
within  reasonable  limits.  The  Association  will  pay  for 
it.  Mrs.  Bowman  will  be  one  of  the  committee,  and  I 
would  advise  you  and  her  to  get  together  and  talk  it 
over  before  the  others  are  appointed.  I  will  see  that 
you  have  time  to  do  it,"  he  added. 

Josephine  did  talk  the  costume  over  with  Mrs.  Bow- 
man, and  another  thing  besides.  It  was  a  thing  which 
had  worried  her  a  little,  and,  in  fact,  made  her  resolve 
to  be  formal  with  Davenport  the  last  time  he  called. 

"  Mr.  Davenport  has  been  kind  to  me  in  various  little 
ways  since  I  came  here,"  said  she,  casually.  "He  has 
taken  me  out  riding  once  or  twice,  and  has  called  several 
times." 

"If  he  hadn't,  I  should  have  been  after  him,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Bowman,  promptly,  burrowing  in  her  work- 
basket  for  a  spool  of  silk. 

"Yet  I  have  been  wondering,"  continued  Josephine, 
with  a  quite  unaccountable  thumping  inside,  "if  I 
haven't  been  the  cause  of  some — well,  possibly  some 
unhappiness." 

"Unhappiness!"  echoed  Mrs.  Bowman.  "In  whom, 
pray?" 

"  I  hope  you  won't  think  me  foolish,  but  in  a  certain 
young  woman  in  this  town,"  answered  Josephine,  blush- 
ing. 

ii  161 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

Mrs.  Bowman  laughed  derisively,  yet  entertained  a 
secret  admiration  for  the  loyalty  of  the  girl  to  her  sex. 

"  I  certainly  do  think  you  foolish.  Do  you  mean  Ber- 
tha Congreve?" 

"Yes,  I  do,  Alice." 

"What  put  that  notion  into  your  head?" 

"Is  it  a  notion?" 

"Answer  my  question  first!"  commanded  Alice. 

"Well,  Bertha  has  acted  rather  queerly  whenever  we 
three — Mr.  Davenport,  she,  and  I — have  been  thrown  to- 
gether." 

Mrs.  Bowman  stitched  in  silence  a  moment. 

"I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  Josephine,  about  the  Congreves 
— the  women.  They  think  they  hold  a  first  mortgage  on 
Morris  Davenport,  and  Volley  is  just  as  insistent  upon 
its  recognition  as  Bertha  is.  She  uses  him  as  freely 
as  she  does  her  thimble — I  was  going  to  say  broom,  but 
that  wouldn't  express  it  at  all,  if  you  have  ever  been  in 
her  house.  If  she  wants  to  go  out  to  her  mother's,  five 
miles  in  the  country,  she  asks  Morris  to  take  her,  if 
Bradley  Hayford  doesn't  happen  to  be  around."  She 
glanced  up  with  a  funny  little  gleam  in  her  eyes ;  it  was 
her  first  allusion  before  Josephine  to  the  relations  be- 
tween Volley  and  her  cousin.  "  She  does  it  with  as  little 
hesitation  as  if  he  were  her  coachman.  When  he  goes  to 
the  city,  which  he  does  three  or  four  times  a  month, 
she  gives  him  a  list  of  what  she  wants,  and  he  shops  for 
her  as  docilely  as  the  worst  henpecked  husband  you 
ever  saw.  He's  too  good.  Now  I  think,"  she  con- 
tinued, complacently,  "that  you  have  probably  offend- 
ed Bertha's  feeling  of  ownership.  You  have  been  slid- 
ing down  her  cellar-door.  But  tell  me  what  she  has 
done,  if  you  don't  care." 

"Oh,  it's  hardly  worth  while,  and  I  may  have  mis- 
judged her,"  said  Josephine,  hesitatingly.  Neverthe- 
less, she  cited  Bertha's  conduct  on  the  day  of  the  trial, 

162 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

and  afterwards  in  connection  with  the  violets.  Her  dark, 
lustrous  eyes  awaited  Mrs.  Bowman's  opinion  rather 
anxiously. 

"Well,"  answered  Alice,  impartially,  "the  girl  may 
be  in  love  with  him,  in  her  way,  for  all  I  know.  I  said 
in  the  beginning  that  it  was  foolish  for  him  to  take  her 
into  his  office.  He  could  have  helped  the  family  in 
some  other  way.  But  if  she  is  in  love,  you  may  be  sure 
it  is  none  of  Morris's  doings.  They  run  around  to- 
gether, of  course.  But  it's  just  as  I  tell  you — he  is  in 
harness  and  can't  get  out.  As  for  his  ever  having  paid 
her  any  serious  attentions,  it's  absurd.  If  he  had,  I 
think  I  should  have  known  of  it.  He  and  I  have  had  a 
good  many  confidential  chats.  She  is  not  a  woman  who 
could  satisfy  him.  Why,  he  regards  her  as  a  child!" 

"Perhaps  that  is  how  the  trouble  began." 

"There  is  no  trouble,"  answered  Mrs.  Bowman,  de- 
cisively. "And  if  you  go  to  treating  him  coolly  on 
any  such  grounds,  Josephine  dear,  I  shall  never  forgive 
you." 

"I  may  not  have  a  chance,"  said  Josephine,  laugh- 
ing. "He  hasn't  been  around  so  often  of  late.  I 
thought,  perhaps,  he  had  awakened  to  the  fact  that  he 
had  been  indiscreet,  and — " 

"  Look  here,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Bowman,  sweeping  aside 
her  work.  "  I  want  you  to  have  a  good  time  this  sum- 
mer, and  I  don't  want  you  to  cut  yourself  off,  by  any 
sentimental  foolishness,  from  the  only  young  man  in  Tell- 
fair  who  can  give  it  to  you.  Now  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
something,  and  I  want  you  to  consider  it  sacred.  Morris 
Davenport  told  me  himself  that  there  was  absolutely 
nothing  between  him  and  Bertha  Congreve." 

"When?"  asked  Josephine,  after  a  moment. 

"A  month  or  two  ago." 

"How  did  he  happen  to  tell  you?" 

"You  doubting  Thomas!     I  asked  him." 
163 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"But  how  did  you  happen  to  ask  him?" 

"Simply  because  a  lot  of  gossipy  old  women  in  this 
town,  who  might  at  their  age  better  have  their  thoughts 
on  that  place  where  there  is  neither  marrying  nor  giving 
in  marriage,  make  it  their  business  to  report  every  man 
and  woman  engaged  who  appear  together  twice  in  public, 
and  I  wanted  to  be  able  to  thrust  their  stories  about 
Morris  and  Bertha  back  in  their  teeth.  And  I  have  had 
the  pleasure  of  doing  it  several  times  since.  Now  are 
you  satisfied?" 

"I  suppose  I  am,"  said  Josephine,  but  not  convinc- 
ingly. 

"Have  you  heard  some  of  these  stories  yourself?" 

"No." 

"  His  own  denial  ought  to  satisfy  you." 

"Oh,  I  am  satisfied  that  he  doesn't  consider  himself 
bound  to  her." 

"My  dear,  you  are  provoking.  Let  me  kiss  you  be- 
fore I  slap  you!"  exclaimed  Alice,  leaping  to  her  feet, 
for  Josephine  was  going. 

Alice  broached  the  subject  at  tea  to  Mr.  Bowman,  but 
his  mind  was  in  the  clouds  over  his  next  Sunday's  ser- 
mon, and  he  took  her  disclosures  very  coolly  indeed, 
merely  remarking  that  she  had  better  not  meddle  with 
other  people's  affairs.  She  was  a  little  hurt  at  this,  and 
very  much  disappointed,  for  there  was  no  one  else  to  talk 
it  over  with.  But  she  had  lived  with  her  husband  long 
enough  to  know  that  there  were  moments  when  he  was 
hopelessly  superior  to  all  mundane  affairs. 

A  few  days  after  the  first  meeting  of  the  costuming 
committee — in  other  words,  a  few  days  after  it  had  be- 
come publicly  known  that  Josephine  was  to  act  as  Ceres 
— she  took  from  her  post-office  box  a  letter  bearing  a 
one-cent  stamp  and  addressed  in  a  palsied  hand.  She 
spelled  out  the  following: 

164 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"DEAR  Miss  PRIESTLEY, — You  will  pardon  this  epistle, 
I  trust,  but  I  have  lived  in  this  town  longer  than  you,  and 
I  know  what  it  is.  I  do  hate  to  say  it,  as  was  born  and 
bred  here,  but  this  town  is  a  hotbed  of  gossip.  Oh,  how 
many  sweet  girl's  name  have  I  heard  on  the  foul  lips  of 
Hers.  I  don't  want  to  see  yours  there,  so  I  take  this  op- 
portunity to  warn  you  not  to  accept  the  part  of  Series. 
It  is  a  well  known  fact  that  Morris  Davenport  is  engaged 
to  Bertha  Congreve ;  and  though  it  isn't  for  me  to  say  that 
he  ought  to  have  chose  her  for  the  part,  there  are  others 
who  Have  Said  it.  I  hope  you  will  not  think  me  meddling, 
and  I  know  you  will  thank  me  for  this  advice  some  time. 
I  have  not  the  pleasure  and  honor  of  your  acquaintance, 
but  I  hope  some  day  to  be  able  to  make  myself  known  as 
the  author  of  this  epistle.  Not  that  I  take  any  credit  for 
it.  It  is  only  my  Christian  duty,  which  I  trust  I  always 
try  to  perform,  and  have  these  thirty  years. 

"A  FRIEND." 

Josephine  read  the  letter  in  the  post-office.  At  first 
she  was  inclined  to  laugh,  but  before  she  got  home  she 
was  nearer  crying.  The  mere  thought  of  her  name  be- 
ing bandied  about  by  a  clique  of  scandal-mongers  was 
terrifying  to  the  high-spirited  girl ;  and  though  an  anon- 
ymous communication  was  always  open  to  suspicion, 
the  tenor  of  this  one  so  perfectly  accorded  with  her  own 
misgivings  that  she  at  once  gave  it  credence.  Victoria, 
however,  with  no  such  misgivings,  breathed  scorn  and 
defiance  upon  reading  the  letter. 

"Some  meddlesome,  hypocritical  old  tabby-cat  wrote 
that!"  she  exclaimed.  "  She's  trying  to  curry  favor  with 
you,  and  if  you  take  her  advice  you'll  have  her  mousing 
around  here  some  day  in  a  poke-bonnet  and  her  best 
black  alpaca,  scraping  an  acquaintance.  I  should  think 
a  person  who  wrote  a  letter  like  that  could  be  arrested." 

"You'd  have  to  find  your  person  first,"  said  Jose- 
phine, with  a  nervous  laugh.  "There  is  nothing  very 
bad  about  it." 

165 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"It  is  bad!"  said  Victoria,  hotly.  "It  is  a  libel  on 
Morris  Davenport,  and  it  makes  you  unhappy.  It  is  a 
vile,  contemptible,  cowardly  piece  of  work.  Nobody 
but  an  old  woman  who  had  nothing  to  do  but  think  evil 
of  others  would  suggest  that  Mr.  Davenport  gave  you 
the  preference  over  Bertha  on  personal  grounds." 

"I  know  that.  But  if  this  idea  is  in  one  person's 
head,  it  might  be  in  another's." 

"I  don't  care  if  it's  in  a  million.  Are  you  going  to 
back  down?" 

"  Would  you  have  me  talked  about  ?"  asked  Josephine, 
quietly. 

"No.  And  I  wouldn't  have  you  under  the  thumb  of 
some  nameless,  evil-minded  old  woman,  either,"  she  an- 
swered, with  tears  of  vexation. 

"There  is  another  thing  to  be  thought  of,"  continued 
Josephine,  gravely.  "A  story  of  this  kind  might  affect 
our  popularity  as  teachers.  I  am  as  reluctant  to  submit 
to  a  thing  of  this  kind  as  you  are,  but  I  think  we  ought 
to  keep  out  of  these  village  factions,  if  possible.  Alice 
has  told  me  repeatedly  how  careful  one  has  to  be  here  in 
Tellfair.  Some  of  her  stories  have  actually  frightened 
me." 

"I  don't  believe  a  lie  can  hurt  anybody  except  the 
liar,"  returned  Victoria.  "Why  don't  you  ask  Alice 
about  this?" 

"  I  might,"  said  Josephine.  "  Yet  I  dislike  to.  I  dis- 
like to  have  this  insinuation  suggested  to  her  mind."  A 
faint  rose-color  overspread  her  temples. 

"  But  she  will  have  to  know  about  it,  if  you  refuse  to 
take  the  part." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  need  mention  the  letter."  She 
looked  at  her  sister  wistfully.  She  longed  to  be  per- 
fectly candid,  and  to  tell  her  all  that  she  suspected  of 
Bertha  Congreve.  But  some  things  cannot  be  told,  even 
to  one's  sister.  "  I  think  I  had  better  drop  Mr.  Daven- 

166 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

port  a  note  and  ask  him  to  call.  I  don't  like  to  go  to  his 
office — now." 

"You  had  better  go  to  the  office.  It  will  be  less  con- 
spicuous than  sending  a  letter  through  the  post-office 
and  having  him  call  here." 

"Will  you  go  with  me?" 

"Of  course.  But  I  think  it  would  be  less  embarrass- 
ing if  you  went  alone.  You  have  a  perfect  right  to  do  so, 
and  I  wouldn't  let  them  make  a  coward  of  me." 

"If  anything  would  make  a  coward  of  me,  it  would 
be  something  just  like  this.  But  it  hasn't  yet,"  and  she 
smiled  bravely.  "I'll  go  at  once,  and  have  it  over." 

She  was  a  trifle  pale  as  she  put  on  her  hat,  and  Vic- 
toria put  her  arms  around  her  and  kissed  her. 

"Don't  worry,  Jo.     It  will  come  out  all  right." 

As  Josephine  passed  down  the  street,  old  Mrs.  Betts, 
with  her  heart  beating  at  unwonted  speed,  sat  at  her 
window,  straining  her  eyes  through  her  longest-sighted 
lenses.  When  she  saw  Josephine  slip  an  orange-colored 
envelope  into  her  bosom — the  anonymous  letter — the 
old  lady's  excitement  became  so  great  that  she  had  to 
leave  her  sewing-machine  and  slip  out  into  the  back 
yard  for  air.  It  had  just  occurred  to  her  that  she  might 
be  the  only  person  in  town  who  used  orange-colored 
stationery,  and  that  one  of  her  letters,  although  un- 
signed, could  be  easily  traced  back  to  her  by  a  skilful 
detective.  A  boy  drawing  a  stick  along  her  picket  fence 
gave  her  such  a  start  that  she  clapped  her  hand  over 
her  heart;  and  when  she  saw  Pete  Blanchard,  the  con- 
stable, coming  up  the  street,  half  an  hour  later,  she  fled 
panic-stricken  to  her  attic,  where  she  remained  until 
the  unconscious  minion  of  the  law  had  passed  harmlessly 
by.  Surely  a  guilty  conscience  needs  no  accuser. 


XIX 

JOSEPHINE  had  not  failed  to  note  the  change  in 
Bertha  Congreve  —  the  slight  pallor,  the  new  re- 
serve. She  halted  in  the  hall  before  Davenport's  door 
with  an  almost  unconquerable  dread  of  facing  the  girl 
and  asking  for  her  employer.  The  thought,  too,  that 
Bertha  must  now  know  that  she  had  been  chosen  for 
Ceres  did  not  make  her  any  easier. 

Bertha,  seated  at  the  typewriter,  looked  up  with  dis- 
concerting coolness  as  Josephine  entered.  Yet  there 
was  no  hostility  in  her  glance,  or  even  disdain;  sim- 
ply perfect  indifference.  It  piqued  Josephine  that  she 
should  quail  before  a  chit  of  a  girl  like  this,  yet  it  re- 
quired her  last  reserve  of  self-control  to  ask,  in  a  natural, 
friendly  tone: 

"Is  Mr.  Davenport  in,  Bertha?" 

"No,  he's  out.     I  think  he  will  be  in  soon." 

Josephine  stood  in  doubt  a  moment.  She  did  not 
want  to  wait,  but  she  also  did  not  want  to  be  seen  com- 
ing to  the  office  again.  Bertha  did  not  ask  her  to  sit 
down,  but  she  finally  did  so  without  an  invitation. 

"  You  can  wait  inside,  if  you  prefer,"  said  Bertha.  It 
was  impossible  to  say  whether  this  was  a  thrust  or  a 
hospitality.  Josephine  accepted  it  for  the  latter. 

"Oh  no,  I'll  sit  here  and  talk  to  you.  But  perhaps 
you  are  busy,"  she  added,  glancing  at  the  writing- 
machine. 

"It's  a  part  of  my  business  to  entertain  clients,"  said 
Bertha. 

168 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"I  am  afraid  I'm  not  a  client  to-day." 

It  struck  her,  after  it  was  out,  as  not  a  happy  speech, 
and  Bertha  raised  her  blue  eyes  at  once,  steadily, 
stonily,  as  if  to  say,  "You  needn't  tell  me  that."  She 
said  nothing,  though. 

In  the  midst  of  the  painful  silence  which  followed, 
Davenport's  quick,  peremptory  step  sounded  on  the 
stairs.  As  he  entered-  his  eyes  slipped  swiftly  from 
one  woman  to  the  other,  as  if  to  ascertain  the  state  of 
affairs. 

"Well,  what's  in  the  wind  to-day?"  he  asked,  lightly, 
of  Josephine. 

"Nothing  of  great  importance." 

"We  shall  see.  Everything  is  of  some  importance  to 
somebody,  as  I  believe  I  once  told  you  before,  and  you 
told  me  back  again.  Just  step  in  here.  Somebody  will 
be  sure  to  blunder  in  on  us  in  this  room  before  we  are 
done." 

Josephine  felt  that  the  last  was  a  sop  thrown  to  Ber- 
tha, and,  glancing  up  as  she  passed  through  the  door, 
she  was  not  surprised  at  the  girl's  scornfully  curling 
nostrils. 

"I  said  it  was  of  no  importance,"  she  began  at  once, 
"but  perhaps  you  will  think  it  is.  I  have  been  con- 
sidering the  matter  of  my  impersonating  Ceres  since  I 
saw  you,  and  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I  can- 
not do  it." 

Davenport  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"Haven't  you  reached  that  conclusion  rather  late — 
after  consulting  with  the  ladies  of  the  committee  and 
adopting  a  costume?"  he  asked.  He  seemed  a  little  sar- 
castic. 

"It  may  look  that  way,"  she  answered,  breathing 
faster,  and  feeling  as  if  it  were  her  hard  fortune  of  late  to 
alienate  everybody  with  whom  she  came  in  contact. 
"  I — I — you  remember,  no  doubt,  what  I  said  about  there 

169 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

being  others,  possibly,  who  had  more  claims  to  the  honor 
than  I.  I  find  that  this  feeling  is  entertained  by  others 
besides  myself,  and  under  the  circumstances  I  would 
rather  not  serve — especially  as  it  can  make  no  difference 
to  you.  I  dislike  to  give  the  impression  of — of  push- 
ing myself  forward  and  taking  advantage  of  your  friend- 
ship." 

"Who  are  these  people  that  you  speak  of?"  he  asked. 

"I  can't  mention  their  names  —  I  don't  know  their 
names,  and  I  would  rather  you  wouldn't  ask  how  I 
found  it  out,"  she  answered,  almost  desperately,  fearful 
of  offending  him,  and  yet  shrinking  from  making  the 
source  of  her  information  known. 

Davenport  drummed  on  the  table  with  his  fingers, 
clearly  vexed,  yet  doing  his  best  to  hide  it. 

"The  decision  lies  with  you,  of  course,"  he  said,  final- 
ly. "  But  your  refusal  at  this  late  hour  to  serve  puts 
me  in  a  somewhat  embarrassing  position.  I  have  noti- 
fied the  committee  of  your  acceptance.  I  have  appoint- 
ed a  costume  committee  congenial  to  you,  and  the  cos- 
tume has  been  adopted  and  ordered,  all  of  which  is  a 
matter  of  public  knowledge.  What  excuse  can  I  give 
for  your  withdrawal?  It  seems  to  me  that  the  one  you 
have  given  is  hardly  adequate.  At  least,  I  doubt  if  it 
will  be  accepted  without  comment.  And  I  must  say, 
Miss  Priestley,  that  if  all  people  were  as  sensitive  to  crit- 
icism as  you  appear  to  be  in  this  instance,  the  world 
would  come  to  a  stand-still  to-morrow.  No  minister 
would  preach  another  sermon,  no  lawyer  try  another 
case,  no  author  write  another  book." 

"  I  am  sorry  you  think  so  ill  of  my  courage,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"I  must  confess  to  a  feeling  of  disappointment." 

"Perhaps  you  don't  quite  realize  the  delicacy  of  our 
position  here  in  Tellfair — my  sister's  and  mine — with- 
out parents  or  relatives  or  sponsors  of  any  kind." 

170 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"I  think  I  do.  I  hope  I  do,"  he  returned,  relenting. 
"  But  I  must  tell  you  this  in  all  kindness:  if  you  are  to  be 
turned  from  your  course  by  every  breath  of  censure  in 
this  town,  you  will  never  arrive  anywhere.  Your  trail 
will  be  as  devious  as  that  of  a  snail.  I  am  not  going 
to  urge  you  to  accept  this  Ceres  business,  however.  I 
don't  want  to  compel  you.  I  will  simply  say  that  you 
are  acceptable  to  the  committee,  to  me,  and  to  the  town, 
so  far  as  I  know.  I  give  you  my  word,  I  haven't  heard 
one  syllable  of  fault  found  with  the  appointment.  Of 
course,  there  are  people  who  would  comment  unfavor- 
ably on  any  course  that  any  human  being  could  take. 
If  Christ  himself  appeared  in  the  flesh  in  Tellfair  to- 
morrow and  preached  a  sermon,  there  are  people  who 
would  find  it  unorthodox." 

"You  are  offended,"  said  she,  regretfully. 

"No,  simply  disappointed." 

"You  think  I  am  weak,"  she  continued,  timidly. 

"In  this  instance,  I  think  you  are." 

She  dropped  her  eyes  for  a  moment. 

"There  must  be  some  fault-finding,  or  I  shouldn't 
have  heard  what  I  have,"  she  continued,  faintly. 

"Not  knowing  what  you  have  heard,  I  can't  say." 

"That  is  the  second  time  you  have  been  sarcastic  to- 
day," she  protested. 

"I  don't  think  I  could  be  very  sarcastic  with  you," 
said  he. 

The  next  instant  the  vexing  letter,  almost  with- 
out her  volition,  was  out  of  her  bosom  and  on  the 
table. 

"Read  that!"  said  she,  in  a  low  voice. 

He  looked  first  at  her  and  then  at  the  envelope,  but 
without  offering  to  touch  the  latter. 

"An  anonymous  letter?"  he  asked. 

"How  did  you  know?"  she  exclaimed,  in  astonish- 
ment. 

171 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"I  can  spot  a  disguised  hand  nine  times  out  of  ten. 
Also,  from  what  you  said." 

Josephine,  with  a  fast -beating  heart,  watched  him 
read  the  scrawl  through.  When  he  was  done  he  quietly 
folded  the  letter  again  and  returned  it  to  the  envelope. 
But  there  was  fire  in  his  eyes. 

"I  suppose  you  know  that  this  is  a  lie." 

"The  part  referring  to  you?"  she  asked,  with  a 
flutter. 

"Yes.  Not  only  that  I  am  engaged,  but  that  it  is 
generally  believed." 

"I  had  never  heard  it  before.  I  —  I  knew  nothing 
about  it." 

"Well,  we  won't  go  into  my  troubles  now,"  said 
he,  lightly.  "But  do  you  offer  this  cowardly  letter 
as  an  excuse  for  your  withdrawal  from  the  festi- 
val?" 

She  met  his  glance  unwaveringly  this  time. 

"I  offer  it,  Mr.  Davenport,  in  order  that  you,  who 
know  just  how  much  truth  it  contains,  and  how  careful 
I  have  to  be,  may  tell  me  what  to  do." 

"I  tell  you  to  serve,"  he  answered,  instantly. 

"Then  I  serve,"  said  she,  no  whit  slower. 

"I  should  like  the  honor  of  grasping  your  hand  on 
that!"  he  exclaimed.  And  she,  blushing,  gave  him  her 
hand. 

"A  word  about  this  letter  now,"  he  continued.  "It 
was  evidently  written  by  some  well-meaning  but  med- 
dlesome old  woman  with  a  vast  imagination  and  free 
access  to  the  choicest  sources  of  gossip  in  this  town. 
It  is  self-condemning,  not  only  by  its  anonymity,  but 
by  its  tone.  If  I  were  you,  I  should  try  to  forget  it.  I 
am  very  glad,  though,  that  you  showed  it  to  me.  Half- 
confidences  are  always  disastrous.  Had  you  not  shown 
it  and  allowed  it  to  scare  you  off,  I  doubt  not  that  the 
truth  would  have  leaked  out  in  time,  through  the  writer 

172 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

herself,  and  people  might  have  attributed  your  timid- 
ity to  a  guilty  conscience." 

He  spoke  his  convictions.  Yet  after  Josephine  had 
gone  he  regretted  ever  having  asked  her  to  take  part 
in  the  festival.  He  regretted  anything,  nowadays,  that 
connected  his  and  Bertha's  names. 


XX 

A  MEETING  of  the  corn  festival  committee  was  held 
/-\  the  next  day,  in  a  back  room  of  the  First  National 
Bank.  Davenport  arrived  late.  As  he  entered  the 
room,  a  dead  silence  fell,  and  he  knew  as  well  as  if  told 
that  something  had  been  up  for  discussion  on  the  as- 
sumption that  he  was  not  coming.  It  remained  for  Mr. 
Bradley  Hayford,  in  the  prolonged  silence  of  the  others, 
to  explain  what  this  something  was. 

"We've  just  been  discussing  this  Serious  business, 
Morris,"  said  he,  blandly.  The  most  elaborate  state- 
ment could  not  have  made  the  situation  any  clearer 
than  did  the  apologetic  note  in  Hayford's  voice  and 
the  skulking  look  of  some  of  the  other  committee-men. 

"What  about  it?"  asked  Davenport,  dryly. 

"  Well,  we've  just  been  kind  of  talking  over  the  candi- 
dates," answered  Hayford. 

"I  was  not  aware  that  there  were  any  candidates." 

His  voice  had  a  razor  edge.  Lucius  Shaw,  president 
of  the  bank,  winked  at  one  of  the  committee-men. 
Lucius  loved  a  fight,  as  long  as  he  was  not  in  it. 

"Well,  there  is  some,"  said  Hayford,  bluntly. 

"Who  nominated  them?"  asked  Davenport. 

"I  don't  know  as  anybody  nominated  'em.  Their 
names  just  come  up  like." 

"What  are  their  names?" 

"Miss  Priestley  for  one,  and  Berthy  Congreve  for  an- 
other." 

"I  am  sure  I  don't  understand,  gentlemen,  why  this 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

matter  should  have  been  brought  up  for  discussion  at 
all,"  said  Davenport.  "As  chairman  of  this  committee, 
and  exercising  a  privilege  which  has  been  attached  to 
that  office  for  years,  I  asked  Miss  Priestley  to  accept 
the  part  of  Ceres.  She  did  so,  and  I  so  reported  at  the 
last  meeting.  There  were  no  objections  made  to  her 
then,  and  I  don't  understand  why  there  should  be  any 
now." 

"  Nor  I !"  piped  old  Ezra  Holden.  "  But  it  seems  there 
be,"  he  added,  dropping  his  toothless  jaw  in  a  grin. 

On  the  committee  were  Lucius  Shaw,  Lowdermilk 
Tidd — leading  merchant  of  Tellfair — Tom  Feversham, 
and  a  number  of  less  prominent  people.  As  Davenport 
looked  them  thoughtfully  over,  he  saw  scarcely  a  man 
there  whom  he  had  not,  at  some  time  or  other,  favored. 
He  saw  men  whom  he  had  elected  to  office,  loaned  money 
to,  sent  business  to,  or  given  a  social  boost.  One  man 
he  had  reconciled  with  his  wife,  another  he  had  saved 
from  bankruptcy.  Yet  so  precarious  a  thing  is  public 
favor  that  Davenport  doubted  if  he  could  command  a 
majority  in  that  body,  if  it  came  to  a  contest,  without 
using  the  whips  of  interest  and  fear. 

"  I  hain't  any  objections  to  Miss  Priestley,  personally," 
observed  Hayford.  "  But  she's  a  new-comer  here,  and  it 
looks  to  me  as  if  we  hadn't  ought  to  give  our  old  girls 
the  go-by  in  order  to  cater  to  a  new  one.  I  ain't  much 
on  that  myself." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  insinuate  that  anybody  else  on  this 
committee  is?"  asked  Davenport,  ominously. 

"  I  don't  insinuate  anything,"  answered  Hayford,  with 
his  provoking,  oxlike  placidity.  "I'm  simply  sayin' 
how  it  looks.  It  looks  as  if  we  was  simply  fallin'  over 
ourselves  to  curry  favor  with  people  that  once  cared 
mighty  little  for  our  favor." 

"It  may  look  that  way  to  you,"  retorted  Davenport, 
contemptuously,  "but  I  should  hate  to  have  the  public 

175 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

believe  that  this  committee  took  any  such  jaundiced 
view  of  the  matter." 

"There's  young  ladies  here,"  continued  Hayford,  as 
unheeding  as  a  turtle  under  an  attack  of  mosquitoes, 
"whose  people  have  always  lived  in  town,  and  been 
identified  with  it  and  the  fair,  and  I  think  they  ought 
to  come  first.  Berthy  Congreve  is  one  of  them." 

"There  is  some  justice  in  Hayford's  remarks,  Morris," 
said  a  little,  wizened  man,  with  a  spot  of  color  as  bright 
as  paint  on  each  cheek.  "I  don't  agree  with  him  that 
the  Priestley  family  at  one  time  held  the  village  in  con- 
tempt. In  that  I  think  he  does  an  eccentric  family  an 
injustice.  But  it  does  seem  to  me  that  it  would  be 
more  fitting  to  choose  a  Ceres  from  one  of  our  old  village 
families." 

"Why  didn't  you  say  so,  then,  Mr.  Cranmarsh,  at  the 
last  meeting?"  asked  Davenport. 

"I  wish  I  had,"  answered  the  old  gentleman,  regret- 
fully. "But  as  there  was  no  objection  from  any  one 
else,  I  held  my  peace." 

"  I  wish  you  and  everybody  else  had  continued  to  hold 
it,"  growled  Lowdermilk  Tidd,  in  his  fat  throat. 

"A  mistake  is  made,"  said  Davenport,  "in  regarding 
this  role  of  Ceres  as  an  honor,  or  a  piece  of  political 
patronage.  Miss  Priestley  was  by  no  means  anxious  to 
serve,  but  I  urged  her  to  do  so  because  I  think  she  is 
admirably  fitted  for  the  part.  She  is  tall  and  queenly 
in  appearance,  is  dark,  and  possesses  considerable  dig- 
nity and  beauty.  It  was  simply  a  matter  of  business 
with  me,  and  that  is  what  it  ought  to  be  with  you." 

"That's  right,"  assented  one  of  the  members. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Berthy,  from  a  business 
point  of  view?"  asked  Hayford,  bull-doggishly. 

"She's  too  slight,"  said  Davenport.  "On  the  top  of 
that  big  float  she  would  look  like  a  doll-baby,  and  her 
small  features  would  hardly  be  distinguishable  at  twenty 

176 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

yards.  Besides,  she's  light-complected,  and  would  offer 
no  contrast  to  the  sheaves  of  grain  around  her." 

"I  think  one  person  can  take  that  part  about  as  well 
as  another,"  returned  Hayford,  stubbornly.  "There's 
nothing  to  do  but  set  there." 

"Then  why  not  use  your  brindled  bull-terrier?"  asked 
Davenport,  sarcastically.  " He's  as  good  a  'setter'  as  I 
know  of." 

This  reference  to  Hayford's  lazy  and  obese  canine  pet 
provoked  a  laugh. 

"Morris  has  just  explained  that  there  is  something 
to  do  besides  sit  there,"  said  Cranmarsh,  impatiently, 
to  Hayford.  "As  to  his  objections  to  Bertha,  I  must 
confess  they  sound  reasonable.  I  hadn't  thought  of 
them  before." 

"Why  not  try  somebody  else,  then?"  suggested  some 
one. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  try  somebody  else  for?  What 
is  your  objection  to  Miss  Priestley?"  demanded  Daven- 
port, wrathfully. 

"What  are  your  objections  to  somebody  else?"  asked 
Lucius  Shaw,  perhaps  just  to  keep  the  animals  stirred 
up. 

"  Because  Miss  Priestley  has  been  asked  by  me  to  act, 
and  has  consented  to  act,"  said  Davenport,  closing  his 
lips  like  a  steel  trap.  "Whatever  might  have  been  said 
against  her  at  first  is  of  no  weight  now.  The  only  fair 
and  honorable  thing  to  do  now  is  for  this  committee  to 
officially  designate  her  as  its  choice.  To  refuse  this,  at 
this  late  hour,  after  her  name  has  been  noised  around 
town,  through  no  fault  of  her  own,  would  be  a  humilia- 
tion to  her  and  a  rank  injustice." 

Hayford  shot  a  meaning  glance  at  one  of  his  col- 
leagues, and  that  gentleman  at  once  suggested,  most 
innocently,  that  they  ballot  on  the  respective  candi- 
dates— simply  in  the  interests  of  peace.  Davenport 

177 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

saw  the  glance.  He  was,  moreover,  familiar  with  Hay- 
ford's  methods  in  county  conventions;  and  he  knew 
that  this  call  for  a  ballot  meant  that  Hayford  and  his 
partisans  had  "fixed"  enough  of  the  committee-men, 
one  way  or  another,  to  give  Bertha  the  choice. 

"I  object!"  said  he.  "This  opposition,  whose  hatch- 
ing-place I  know  well  enough"  —  with  an  unveiled 
glance  at  Hayford — "  has  gone  too  far.  It  is  not  merely 
a  matter  of  humiliating  Miss  Priestley  now,  although 
that  ought  to  settle  the  question  for  every  gentleman 
present.  It  is  a  matter  of  compromising  me.  If  you 
force  this  issue  to  a  vote,  I  shall  regard  it  as  a  personal 
matter — whether  or  not  I,  as  president  of  the  fair  and 
ex-officio  chairman  of  this  committee,  am  to  be  repudi- 
ated in  one  of  my  official  acts." 

"It  isn't  that,  Morris,"  ventured  a  peacemaker. 
"There  is  plainly  a  difference  of  opinion  here,  and  it  is 
only  fair  to  give  it  expression." 

"No,"  returned  Davenport,  "it  is  only  fair  now  not 
to  give  it  expression.  I  can  see,  if  some  of  you  can't, 
what  is  brewing.  Last  week  there  was  no  objection 
made.  Since  that  time  certain  outside  influences  have 
been  at  work  on  an  over-susceptible  member,  and  I  most 
decidedly  object  to  giving  this  hostile  outside  influence 
any  expression  whatever  here.  I  would  object  to  a 
ballot  even  though  I  knew  that  it  would  result  in  Miss 
Priestley's  choice." 

"  What  outside  influence  do  you  refer  to,  Davenport?" 
asked  Hayford,  with  an  ugly  light  in  his  pale-blue  eyes. 
He  knew,  of  course,  with  the  rest  of  the  committee,  that 
Davenport  meant  Volley  Congreve,  but  a  "bluff"  of 
some  kind  seemed  necessary  to  his  pugilistic  mind. 

"I  think  there  is  no  doubt  in  anybody's  mind,  Brad- 
ley Hayford,  least  of  all  your  own,  as  to  whom  and  what 
I  mean,"  returned  Davenport,  scorchingly. 

Hayford  was  slow  to  anger,  but  his  face  now  took  on 
178 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

a  brick-red  flush,  and  he  glared  at  Davenport  threat- 
eningly. Davenport  met  the  glare  with  a  calm  and 
steady  eye. 

"Gentlemen,"  interposed  Danny  McMaster,  one  of 
the  conservatives,  "I  move  that  we  take  a  secret,  in- 
formal ballot  on  this  question."  „ 

"Secret  ballot  be  damned!"  roared  Lowdermilk  Tidd, 
his  big,  red  face  redder  than  ever.  He  was  on  Daven- 
port's side  and  wanted  everybody  to  know  it.  "Let 
every  tub  stand  on  its  own  bottom." 

Little  Danny  subsided — not  because  he  was  afraid  of 
Lowdermilk  Tidd's  loud  voice,  but  because  he  hated 
swearing  and  noises  of  all  kinds.  But  another  man,  not 
so  sensitive,  seconded  Danny's  motion,  and  after  some 
bickering  it  was  carried.  Several  of  Davenport's  sup- 
porters gave  their  voices  in  the  affirmative,  simply  to 
produce  harmony,  and  because  they  were  quite  sure 
that  Davenport  would  be  vindicated. 

Davenport,  however,  in  the  heat  of  battle,  could  not 
see  this,  and  regarded  the  carrying  of  the  motion  as  a 
personal  affront.  He  weighed  the  committee  in  his  eye 
for  a  moment.  He  thought  he  might  obtain  a  majority. 
But  the  mere  possibility  of  Josephine's  rejection,  which 
would  confirm  all  her  doubts  and  fears  and  give  the  lie 
to  his  words  of  reassurance,  nerved  him  to  play  his  last 
card.  He  arose,  hat  in  hand. 

"You  can  vote  as  you  please,  gentlemen,  secretly  or 
openly,"  he  said.  "But  when  you  vote,  bear  these 
points  in  mind.  Miss  Priestley  was  chosen  by  me  from 
practical,  not  sentimental,  considerations.  But  if  you 
must  be  sentimental,  you  might  do  worse  than  crown 
your  industrial  procession  with  a  woman  who,  having 
once  lived  here  in  opulence  and  social  seclusion,  returns 
to  Tellfair,  bereft  of  family  and  fortune,  and  bravely 
sets  to  work  to  earn  a  living. 

"There  is  one  other  thing  that  I  want  you  to  consider 
179 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

well,  each  one  of  you,  before  you  write  a  ballot  against 
her.  If  Miss  Priestley  is  rejected,  it  is  war  between  me 
and  the  Tellfair  County  Fair  Association  from  this  hour. 
If  I  haven't  your  confidence,  I  don't  want  the  presidency 
of  the  fair  ;  and  I  shall  consider  your  refusal  to  confirm 
my  choice  as  a  request  for  my  resignation." 

He  paused  a  moment  for  this  to  soak  in,  then  con- 
tinued, grimly: 

"If  I  go,  my  race-horses  go — my  exhibits,  my  in- 
fluence, and  my  good-will.  I  can  promise  the  same  for 
my  father  and  my  tenants.  I  don't  wish  to  assume  the 
r61e  of  dictator,  and  you  all  know  that  I  have  ever 
been  open  to  reason,  and  time  and  again  have  given 
away  to  the  wishes  of  others.  But  in  this  matter  my 
pride  is  at  stake,  and,  if  you  don't  want  me  with  you, 
you  shall  have  me  against  you." 

He  paused  again  in  a  dead  silence,  and  put  on  his  hat. 
Turning  towards  the  door,  he  added: 

"This  is  a  personal  matter,  and  I  cannot  vote.  I  will 
therefore  leave  you  to  your  deliberations." 

Lowdermilk  Tidd  waddled  out  after  him,  bareheaded, 
into  the  main  room  of  the  bank,  and  begged  him  not  to 
throw  away  what  might  prove  a  precious  vote  out  of 
mere  pride. 

"  If  the  committee  is  as  anxious  as  that  to  cut  its  own 
throat,"  answered  Davenport,  caustically,  "  I  would  give 
it  a  knife  sooner  than  a  vote." 

Davenport  had  long  been  at  the  head  of  the  fair,  and 
usually  had  his  own  way.  But  in  return  for  this  he 
had  always  given  generously  when  there  was  a  deficit. 
He  had  swelled  the  track  purses  with  money  from  his 
own  pocket,  and  had  thus  contributed  more  to  the  suc- 
cess of  the  races  than  even  Hay  ford  himself.  He  was 
untiring  in  working  up  a  friendly  rivalry  among  the 
farmers  in  their  live-stock  exhibits,  and  had  won  their 
gratitude  by  protecting  them  in  the  matter  of  prizes 

1 80 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

from  professional  breeders  outside  the  county.  He  had 
originated  the  idea  of  a  Woman's  Building,  devoted  only 
to  the  handiwork  of  that  sex.  From  that  year  divi- 
dends took  the  place  of  deficits  on  the  association's 
books,  and  the  stockholders  rejoiced  accordingly. 

In  view  of  all  this,  the  action  of  the  committee  hurt 
him.  It  would  be  public  property  within  twenty-four 
hours.  It  might  possibly  escape  Josephine's  ears,  for 
she  had  not  yet  been  admitted  into  the  star-chamber 
of  the  village  gossips.  But  Bertha  and  her  mother 
would  certainly  hear  of  it — through  Hayford,  if  no  one 
else.  Preferring  them  to  have  his  own  version  first,  he 
explained  to  Bertha,  upon  reaching  the  office,  his  posi- 
tion in  the  matter,  and  how  he  had  been  forced  into  an 
attitude  of  apparent  hostility  to  her. 

She  listened  without  emotion. 

"You  had  a  right  to  choose  any  one  you  pleased," 
she  observed,  coolly. 

"But  I  pleased  to  choose  Miss  Priestley  only  on  ac- 
count of  her  qualifications  for  the  part,"  he  again  re- 
minded her. 

"You  would  have  had  a  perfect  right  to  choose  her 
for  any  other  reason." 

"Only  I  had  no  other  reason,  is  what  I  wanted  to 
make  clear." 

"Morris,"  said  she,  with  a  smile  which  might  have 
veiled  either  a  bosomful  of  contempt  or  a  breaking  heart, 
"  I  don't  want  you  to  feel  that  it  is  necessary  for  you  to 
explain  your  motives  whenever  your  conduct  touches  me. 
I  don't  know  of  anything  that  would  make  me  more 
repugnant  to  you,  in  time,  than  that.  Besides,  I  think 
you  can  safely  let  me  judge  your  motives  for  myself." 

Davenport  flushed.  He  had,  in  truth,  been  explain- 
ing overmuch  of  late. 

"Common  courtesy  seemed  to  require  this  explana- 
tion," he  answered,  quietly. 

181 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

Without  reply  she  went  on  indexing  the  letter-book. 
Davenport,  unwilling  to  leave  the  matter  in  this  unsat- 
isfactory stage,  lingered  a  moment,  watching  her  work. 

"You  spoke  of  my  leaving  my  motives  to  you  for 
judgment,"  he  said,  after  a  little.  "  Do  you  think  your 
judgments  of  late  have  been  as  kindly  as  they  might  have 
been?" 

"Not  kindly,  but  just,"  she  answered,  without  look- 
ing up. 

He  smiled  at  her  dramatic  tone.  Bertha  was  always 
more  or  less  of  an  actor,  even  in  her  sincerest  moments. 

"Then  you  think  I  have  forfeited  your  kindliness?" 
he  asked. 

"Don't  you  think  you  have?"  she  returned,  abruptly, 
with  no  attempt  to  disguise  her  accusing  eyes. 

Now  was  the  golden  moment  to  wipe  away  this  whole 
wretched  tissue  of  ambiguity  and  misunderstanding;  to 
tell  her  frankly  that  he  wanted  to  be  her  friend,  but 
could  not  be  her  lover.  Not  in  so  many  words,  of  course, 
but  in  effect.  Yet  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  it.  It 
was,  in  fact,  a  delicate  matter,  and  he  did  not  see  his 
way  clear. 

"I  do  not,"  he  answered. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  conscious  of  no 
change  in  your  manner  towards  me?"  she  asked,  sharply. 

"I  may  have  changed  in  some  respects.  But  I  have 
the  same  respect  and  friendliness  for  you  that  I  ever 
had." 

This  was  pretty  plain,  and  she  understood.  She 
smiled  icily  and  scornfully,  but  turned  distinctly  paler. 
She  continued  her  writing,  but  her  set  lips  and  slightly 
distended  nostrils  reminded  him  of  some  poor,  wounded 
animal.  For  the  thousandth  time,  perhaps,  a  depress- 
ing sense  of  guilt  swept  over  him,  and  he  yearned  to 
qualify  a  little  the  harsh  import  of  his  words.  But  he 
knew  in  his  heart  that  the  only  way  to  do  that  was  to 

182 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

lie.  To  let  her  suffer,  and  to  suffer  with  her,  was  all  that 
was  left  him  to  do.  Yet  still  loath  to  leave  her  without  a 
parting  word  of  some  kind,  he  hung  about  the  room  for 
some  time.  Then,  to  his  amazement,  he  heard  her  laugh. 

"I  was  just  thinking,"  she  explained  at  his  glance, 
"that  if  any  one  should  look  in  on  us  now  they  would 
think  a  tragedy  had  been  enacted." 

He  could  scarcely  believe  his  ears,  but  her  words  and 
tone  lifted  a  ton  weight  off  his  heart.  Had  he,  after 
all,  exaggerated  her  sufferings?  Were  the  cynics  right, 
and  broken  hearts  a  myth? 

How  could  he  know  that  that  hollow  laugh  of  Bertha's 
was  born  in  a  woman's  scorn  for  the  coppers  of  pity  when 
she  had  asked  for  the  gold  of  love? 


XXI 

EWDERMILK  TIDD  came  up  to  the  office  half  an 
hour  later,  and  announced  with  a  chuckle,  after 
closing  the  door  to  Bertha's  room,  that  the  committee 
had  confirmed  Davenport's  choice  without  a  dissenting 
vote.  Hayford  himself,  after  Davenport's  threat,  had 
been  whipped  into  line.  Thus  the  incident  was  closed. 
Josephine  heard  of  the  fight  in  the  committee-room, 
but  only  vaguely,  and  Davenport  easily  answered  her 
questions  about  it. 

That  other  incident,  between  him  and  Bertha,  seemed 
to  be  as  good  as  closed,  too.  Bertha  was  acting  sensibly 
about  it,  and  he  was  profoundly  grateful.  Why  could 
not  women  always  act  according  to  reason  ?  Ugly  mis- 
givings, to  be  sure,  still  occasionally  showed  their  heads 
in  his  breast,  but  more  and  more  rarely  as  the  days  went 
by  and  Bertha  gave  no  further  signs  of  suffering. 

His  intercourse  with  Josephine  took  on  new  life.  He 
cut  the  tether  from  his  heart,  and  let  it  graze  where  it 
would.  It  fattened  rapidly  on  the  sweet,  juicy  grass  of 
this  new  pasture,  and  was  all  unconscious  that  another 
heart  was  growing  weaker  and  thinner — starving — on 
the  arid  table-land  of  unrequited  love. 

It  received  a  revelation,  though,  before  long.  Daven- 
port had  been  invited  to  a  wedding  in  the  country,  and 
had  asked  Josephine  to  go  with  him. 

"But  I  am  not  invited,"  she  objected,  at  once. 

"  Yes,  you  are.  /  invite  you.  These  affairs  are  won- 
derfully informal,  and  they  will  be  flattered  to  have  you 

184 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

there.  I  assure  you  that  anybody  I  take  out  will  be  an 
honored  guest.  You  don't  know  how  big  a  man  I  am, 
outside  the  village  limits.  I  want  you  to  go  and  see  the 
collection  of  vehicles  in  the  barn-yard — you  will  think 
you  are  in  the  transportation  department  of  a  museum. 
Then  there  will  be  quaint  old  grandmothers  there  in  the 
styles  of  half  a  century  ago  ;  and  little  old  spinsters, 
with  curls  in  front  of  their  ears,  who  are  positively  to  be 
seen  at  no  other  place  except  in  their  own  stuffy  little 
parlors  in  some  farm-house  off  on  a  side  road,  where  you 
will  never  get.  There  will  be  twenty  kinds  of  cake,  and 
twenty  farmer  boys  or  more  who  will  eat  a  big  piece  of 
each  kind,  without  a  twinge  of  indigeston.  You  mustn't 
miss  it." 

"  I  should  love  to  go,"  said  Josephine,  "but  have  you 
forgotten  that  this  is  Bertha's  lesson  day?" 

"  I  had,  but  I'll  ask  her  to  let  you  off." 

"  I  don't  like  to  do  that,"  said  she,  slowly.  "It  isn't 
business,  as  you  are  always  saying." 

"  No,  it  isn't;  but  Bertha  is  in  the  family,  so  to  speak, 
and  doesn't  count.  It  is  a  quarter  of  eleven  now,  and 
the  wedding  is  at  twelve.  It's  ten  miles  out  there,  and  I 
own  the  only  horse  in  town  that  can  get  us  there  on  time. 
I  shall  be  back  in  ten  minutes.  Can  you  be  ready  by 
then?  You  needn't  dress,  you  know,"  he  added,  glanc- 
ing at  her  neat  gown. 

"Much  you  know  about  it,"  said  she,  scoutingly. 
"But  I  shall  be  ready." 

Davenport  dashed  back  to  the  office,  and  bounded  up 
the  stairs  two  steps  at  a  time. 

"  Bertha,  there  is  going  to  be  an  old-fashioned  country 
wedding  out  at  Duckwall's  to-day,  and  I  want  Miss 
Priestley  to  see  it.  Would  you  just  as  soon  let  her  off 
from  your  lesson  this  afternoon?" 

Something  about  him — his  hurried,  breathless  man- 
ner, perhaps,  which  was  merely  the  result  of  his  run  up 

185 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

the  stairs,  but  which  it  was  easy  to  mistake  for  eagerness 
— fell  like  a  handful  of  powder  upon  the  smoldering  fire 
within  Bertha's  breast,  and  it  leaped  up  in  a  fierce,  white 
flash. 

"  Yes,  and  from  every  lesson  hereafter,"  she  burst  out, 
passionately. 

Had  she  flung  her  inkstand  at  Davenport  he  could 
hardly  have  been  more  surprised. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

"I  mean  that  I  will  take  no  more  lessons  of  her." 

"  Because  she  asks  you  to  let  her  off  to-day?"  he  ask- 
ed, incredulously. 

"No.  Because  I  hate  her!  Because  I  choke  every 
time  I  stand  in  her  presence,  and  the  only  thing  she  is 
teaching  me  is  to  snarl  like  a  cur!" 

Davenport  eyed  her  in  amazement,  backed  by  rising 
wrath. 

"  Bertha,  this  is  monstrous.  What  has  she  ever  done 
to  you?" 

"She's  a  thief!"  blurted  out  Bertha.  "She  has  stolen 
you  from  me.  Not  as  a  lover.  I  never  accepted  you  as 
a  lover,"  she  added,  with  proudly  swelling  nostrils, 
"though  you  seem  to  have  been  afraid  that  I  had.  But 
as  a  friend.  You  don't  take  any  pleasure  in  talking  to 
me  any  more.  You  never  take  me  riding.  You  never 
call  at  the  house.  You  are  not  even  easy  with  me  any 
more.  You  are  afraid  to  be  seen  with  me  on  the  street, 
and  I  don't  want  you  to  pay  for  my  music  lessons  any 
more." 

"Then  you  know  that  I  have  been  paying  for  your 
lessons  ?" 

"Yes.  Mamma  told  me,  to  make  me  take  them,  so  as 
not  to  offend  you,"  she  answered,  scornfully. 

"And  this  is  how  you  show  your  gratitude?" 

Her  pretty,  baby  lips  quivered  under  the  shaft,  her 
quick  anger  gone.  Leaning  her  head  on  her  hand,  she 

186 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

tried  to  look  out  of  the  window,  while  her  chin  worked 
nervously.  She  was  in  a  high  state  of  excitement,  and 
the  picture  was  a  touching  one.  After  a  short,  sharp 
struggle  with  his  pride,  Davenport  approached  her. 

"  I  am  afraid  we  have  both  been  hasty.  I  have  made 
you  unhappy,  and  you  have  spoiled  the  afternoon  for 
me.  But  let  us  not  part  in  anger.  Will  you  shake 
hands?" 

She  did  not  answer  or  move. 

"Won't  you,  please?"  he  repeated. 

Still  she  did  not  move,  and  he  ventured  to  touch  the 
hand  nearest  him,  the  one  supporting  her  head.  The 
result  was  disastrous.  She  suddenly  hid  her  face  upon 
the  table,  with  a  wild  little  cry,  and  broke  into  a  series  of 
heart-rending  sobs.  Davenport  stood  helplessly  by.  His 
nerve  was  famous,  but  as  one  convulsion  after  another 
swept  over  her,  like  agitated  seas,  the  sweat  gathered 
on  his  forehead. 

"  Don't  cry  so  loud,  Bertha,  please  don't  cry  so  loud!" 
he  pleaded.  "They  will  hear  you  on  the  street." 

He  closed  the  windows  and  turned  the  key  in  the  door. 
Then,  scarcely  conscious  of  what  he  was  doing,  he  began 
to  stroke  her  hair. 

After  a  few  minutes,  though  it  seemed  much  longer, 
she  became  much  calmer,  and  finally  quiet.  She  wiped 
her  eyes,  and,  with  her  face  still  averted,  said,  huskily: 

"You'd  better  go  now;  you'll  be  late." 

"Give  me  your  hand  first,  to  show  that  you  forgive 
me." 

"I  would  rather  not,"  she  murmured,  in  a  voice  still 
moist  and  tremulous.  But  when  he  took  her  hand  she 
made  no  attempt  to  withdraw  it. 

"Good-bye!"  he  called  from  the  door. 

"Good-bye!"  she  answered,  wearily.  * 

He  went  down  the  stairs  as  happy  as  a  man  on  his  way 
to  the  gallows.  It  was  a  quarter-past  eleven — twenty 

t87 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

minutes  late — when  he  reached  the  Priestley  house  again, 
and  Josephine  was  waiting  on  the  sidewalk,  in  the  shade. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  he  said,  "but  I  was  unavoidably 
detained.  We'll  get  there  in  time  yet.  These  things 
never  come  off  on  the  hour." 

His  matter-of-fact  tone  gave  Josephine  no  inkling  of 
the  truth,  but  they  had  not  gone  far  before  she  discov- 
ered an  absent-mindedness  in  him.  He  labored  like  a 
young  giant  to  throw  it  off,  and  would  succeed  for  the 
moment;  but  it  stole  back  upon  him  each  time,  un- 
awares. 

They  reached  the  farm-house  with  time  to  spare,  as 
Davenport  had  predicted.  They  saw  the  farmers,  in 
rusty,  dusty  black,  standing  around  in  the  door-yard  or 
squatting  on  the  porch  and  steps,  whittling,  or  mani- 
curing their  toil-torn  nails.  They  saw  the  women  sitting 
inside,  plying  their  fans  in  almost  funereal  silence.  When 
all  was  ready,  they  saw  the  bride  and  her  sunburned 
groom,  with  best  man  and  maid  behind,  come  bouncing 
down  the  narrow,  crooked  flight  of  stairs  to  the  whining 
wedding-march  of  the  cabinet-organ  in  the  parlor.  They 
also  saw  the  ancient  spinsters  and  the  quaint  grand- 
mothers, the  twenty  cakes,  and  the  twenty  farmer  boys 
who  ate  a  piece  of  each. 

But  Davenport's  usual  running  fire  of  comment  was 
absent,  and  during  the  simple  ceremony  he  was  unduly 
solemn.  He  seemed  to  know  everybody,  men  and  wom- 
en, and  had  a  word  for  them  all.  But  Josephine  saw 
that  he  was  forcing  himself.  Something  had  plainly 
gone  wrong  in  the  half -hour  he  had  been  delayed  at  the 
office;  and  though  it  might  only  have  been  one  of  his 
multifarious  business  affairs,  she  could  not  rid  herself  of 
the  fear  that  it  was  Bertha.  It  was  on  account  of  this, 
*perhaps,  that  she  did  not  mention  the  girl's  name  until 
Davenport  had  helped  her  down  from  the  buggy,  at  her 
gate. 

188 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Tell  Bertha,  please,"  she  said,  "that  if  it  is  con- 
venient for  her,  I  can  give  her  a  lesson  at  ten  o'clock 
to-morrow  morning." 

When  Davenport  reached  his  office,  he  found  it  lock- 
ed, and  a  typewritten  letter  from  Bertha  on  his  desk. 

"DEAR  MORRIS, — I  don't  feel  very  well,  and  I  am  going 
home.  I  am  sorrier  than  I  can  say  for  what  happened  to- 
day. I  have  been  thinking  about  it  ever  since  you  left, 
and  crying.  I  am  grateful,  Morris,  for  the  music  lessons, 
deeply  grateful,  and  for  all  your  other  kindnesses,  al- 
though I  still  think  that  I  have  not  improved  under  Miss 
Priestley  as  I  should  have  under  another  teacher,  and  for 
the  reason  I  gave  to-day. 

"  Perhaps  I  did  her  an  injustice,  too.  She  has  been  very 
kind  to  me,  and  I  wish  I  could  feel  the  same  towards  her. 
I  am  going  to  try,  and,  if  you  really  want  to  pay  for  my 
lessons  any  longer,  I  will  continue  to  take  them. 

"As  to  your  being  unkind  to  me,  I  said  more  than  I 
meant  to-day.  I  hope  you  can  forgive  me.  If  you  do,  I 
shall  know  it  by  your  actions.  Please  do  not  tell  me  that 
you  do,  or  mention  the  matter  again.  I  cannot  bear  to 
talk  about  it.  Sincerely, 

"  BERTHA." 


XXII 

BERTHA  looked  as  fresh  the  next  morning  as  if  no 
wave  of  trouble  had  ever  crossed  her  breast.     Her 
appearance  strengthened  Davenport's  belief  that  she 
was  too  superficial  to  suffer  long  or  deeply  from  any- 
thing, or  even  to  love  deeply. 

This  belief,  however,  had  suffered  several  rude  shocks, 
and  it  was  destined  to  suffer  a  still  ruder  one.  He  sat 
one  evening  on  the  side  porch  with  the  Priestley  sisters 
until  after  ten  o'clock.  Victoria,  who  was  a  discerning 
as  well  as  an  accommodating  little  maiden,  had  then  de- 
clared that  she  was  too  sleepy  to  sit  up  another  minute, 
and  had  gone  in.  Davenport  lingered  with  Josephine, 
thoughtless  of  the  hour,  until  the  church  clock  tolled 
eleven. 

Josephine's  face  was  not  one  which  shrank  from  the 
glare  of  day,  but  in  the  starlight  it  was  enchantingly 
beautiful.  Her  dark  eyes  gleamed  like  the  bosom  of  a 
glassy,  phosphorescent  sea;  and  her  low  contralto  voice 
struck  Davenport  as  the  sweetest  music  he  had  ever 
heard. 

A  peculiar,  almost  painful,  hollo wness  arose  in  his 
throat.  He  ceased  to  talk;  he  almost  ceased  to  listen, 
except  to  her  matchless  intonations.  He  was  vaguely 
conscious  only  that  she  was  talking  about  her  mother's 
old  home  in  France,  and  he  had  a  wild  notion  that  when 
she  was  done  he  should  ask  her  to  become  his  wife.  It 
would  startle  her,  he  was  sure ;  it  might  even  repel  her. 
But  he  would  take  the  chance. 

190 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

Some  subtle  agency  seemed  to  warn  her,  for  she  be- 
came silent.  Then,  at  the  very  instant  the  momentous 
words  were  slipping  to  the  tip  of  his  venturesome  tongue, 
she  turned  slightly  and  said,  so  softly,  so  familiarly,  with 
such  a  winning  assumption  of  the  perfect  understanding 
between  them: 

"You  must  go  home,  Mr.  Davenport.  It  is  after 
eleven." 

It  drove  the  words  from  his  lips,  but  they  merely  re- 
tired to  his  heart  again,  to  bide  their  time. 

As  he  passed  out  of  the  gate,  a  dark  object  suddenly 
started  from  the  shadow  of  a  tree,  flitted  across  the 
street,  and  vanished  in  the  bank  of  gloom  under  the 
thick  foliage.  Burglars  were  practically  unknown  in  the 
village,  but  an  occasional  tramp  spent  the  night  there, 
sometimes  to  the  detriment  of  clothes-lines,  hammocks, 
and  other  appurtenances  of  the  yard. 

Most  Tellfairians — including  the  night-watchmen,  it 
was  hinted — were  content  to  give  these  stray  members 
of  the  unshaven  brotherhood  a  wide  berth  after  dark. 
But  Davenport  was  not.  His  pugnacity  was  now  in- 
stantly aroused,  and  he  paused  to  catch  by  ear  the 
direction  of  the  fleeing  prowler.  Hearing  nothing,  he 
stepped  into  the  grass,  where  his  own  footfalls  were 
noiseless,  and  moved  stealthily  along,  straining  his  eyes 
and  ears  across  the  dark  street.  He  neither  saw  nor 
heard  anything,  though,  until  he  reached  the  corner. 
There,  by  the  aid  of  a  street-lamp  a  block  away,  he 
glimpsed  a  figure  scudding  along  between  the  tree- 
trunks. 

His  curiosity,  not  to  say  suspicion,  was  aroused,  and 
he  instantly  gave  pursuit.  His  unknown  game  set  a 
good  pace.  After  circling  the  block  once,  and  turning  a 
number  of  corners,  in  the  hope,  evidently,  of  losing  his 
pursuer,  the  tramp  or  burglar,  or  whoever  it  was,  turned 
down  an  alley,  came  out  at  the  other  end,  cut  diagonally 

191 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

across  the  court-house  square,  and  doubled  back  along 
one  side  of  it.  He  followed  this  street  until  the  houses 
became  sparse  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  ceased  al- 
together and  gave  way  to  corn-fields.  He  then  turned 
down  a  lane,  followed  the  next  street — or  road — back  to 
the  village,  and  finally  reached  the  park  again. 

The  pair  had  now  made  a  circuit  of  perhaps  a  mile, 
and  Davenport  was  blowing  like  a  porpoise.  After  all, 
he  reflected,  he  might  be  running  down  only  a  harum- 
scarum  boy,  for  he  had  not  yet  got  a  good  look  at  his 
game,  having  followed  more  by  sound  than  sight.  He 
was,  therefore,  on  the  verge  of  abandoning  the  chase  when 
the  figure  ahead,  who  had  heretofore  avoided  the  light 
as  much  as  possible,  apparently  grew  desperate  and 
turned  into  a  street  which  would  bring  him  directly 
under  the  lamp  in  front  of  Dr.  Burney's  house.  Daven- 
port determined  to  hold  out  long  enough,  at  least,  to  see 
what  manner  of  person  he  had  been  following.  Twenty 
seconds  later,  as  the  object  of  his  pursuit  came  between 
him  and  the  light,  he  saw,  to  his  amazement,  that  it  wore 
skirts — that  it  was,  in  short,  a  woman. 

He  came  to  a  sudden  halt.  At  the  same  moment  the 
woman,  who  had  thus  far  shown  remarkable  endurance, 
also  stopped,  staggered  over  to  Dr.  Burney's  fence,  and 
clung  to  the  pickets  for  support.  She  rested  only  a 
few  seconds,  though,  and  then  moved  unsteadily  on, 
directly  into  the  circle  of  light. 

Davenport  emitted  a  cry  of  pain  and  amazement. 
The  woman  was  Bertha  Congreve!  She  paused,  as  if 
she  had  heard  his  cry — though  that  was  scarcely  possi- 
ble— turned  half-way  round,  with  a  reeling  motion,  like 
a  drunken  person,  and  then  sank  gently  to  the  sidewalk 
in  a  senseless  heap. 

Davenport  tenderly  lifted  the  limp  form — how  light 
it  was! — and  for  a  moment  stood  still  and  held  it  in 
his  arms.  His  first  thought  was  to  arouse  Dr.  Burney. 

192 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

His  next  and  more  cautious  one  was  to  carry  her  to  the 
horse-trough  across  the  street  and  revive  her  himself. 
The  possibility  of  some  belated  person,  though,  stum- 
bling upon  them  there  was  not  a  pleasant  thought,  and 
he  concluded  that  the  safest  plan  would  be  to  take  her 
home.  This  involved  an  embarrassing  meeting  with 
the  girl's  mother,  certainly;  and  Bertha  would  be  put 
to  it,  when  she  recovered,  to  explain  her  presence  on 
the  street  at  that  hour.  But  it  was  the  safest  way 
out. 

Bertha  was  light  enough  when  he  first  lifted  her, 
but  before  he  reached  the  house  his  arms  ached.  He 
knocked  gently,  instead  of  ringing  the  bell,  hoping  not 
to  arouse  Harvey,  whose  room  was  farther  back  than 
Volley's.  A  moment  later  the  door  softly  opened,  re- 
vealing Volley  in  a  red  bath-robe  corded  at  the  waist. 
She  was  a  woman  not  easily  alarmed,  as  she  proved  by 
opening  the  door  without  question  at  that  hour  of  the 
night ;  but  the  sight  of  her  limp  and  white-faced  daugh- 
ter in  the  arms  of  a  man  unnerved  her  for  a  moment. 

"Is  she  dead?"  she  gasped. 

"No,  no,"  answered  Davenport,  cheerfully.  "Only 
fainted." 

Volley  was  quickly  herself  again,  and  as  Davenport 
brushed  past  her  with  his  burden  she  said,  softly, 
"There  is  no  necessity  for  awaking  Harvey.  Go  easy 
and  take  her  into  my  room." 

As  soon  as  Bertha  had  regained  consciousness  and 
was  measurably  comfortable — in  other  words,  as  soon  as 
Davenport  was  sure  that  she  could  hear  what  he  said, 
he  enlightened  the  mystified  Volley  a  little. 

"I  had  been  up  to  see  the  Priestley  girls,"  he  said, 
slowly  and  distinctly.  "As  I  was  coming  home,  I  saw 
a  woman  leaning  against  Dr.  Burney's  fence.  I  did  not 
recognize  her  as  Bertha  until  she  started  to  move  on. 
She  seemed  faint,  and  walked  unsteadily,  and  just  as  I 
13  193 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

started  towards  her  she  sank  to  the  sidewalk.     I  picked 
her  up  and  brought  her  home.     That's  about  all." 

This  was  his  story.  Bertha  could  piece  it  out  to  suit 
herself,  or  make  a  clean  breast  of  the  whole  affair ;  but  he 
had  no  intention  of  committing  her  to  either  course. 

Volley  listened  to  this  brief  recital  with  steady,  gray 
eyes.  There  might  also  have  been  a  glint  of  incredulity 
in  them. 

"  I  don't  understand  it  at  all,"  said  she,  disapproving- 
ly, if  not, indeed,  disbelievingly.  "Bertha  was  to  have 
spent  the  night  with  Carrie  Stone,  and  how  she  happened 
to  be  in  front  of  Dr.  Burney's,  after  eleven  o'clock  at 
night,  alone,  and  in  an  exhausted  condition,  I  can't  un- 
derstand." 

She  glanced  at  the  bed,  but  Bertha  had  discreetly 
closed  her  eyes  again,  and  looked  so  weak  and  wan  that 
no  one  would  have  had  the  heart  to  question  her  just 
then.  Davenport  ventured  no  hypothesis,  but  as  he 
arose  to  go  he  said,  still  careful  that  Bertha  should 
hear: 

"  I  am  not  certain,  but  I  think  that  some  man  or  boy 
frightened  her  by  following  her,  for  as  I  came  up  I  saw 
some  one  turn  rapidly  and  rather  stealthily  into  Main 
Street.  I  thought  nothing  of  it,  though,  until  I  saw 
Bertha." 

He  took  a  last  glance  at  the  figure  on  the  bed,  over 
which  Volley  had  thrown  a  gorgeous  slumber-robe  of 
barred  orange  and  black.  Under  his  gaze  Bertha's  half- 
lifted  lids  slowly  sank  again,  as  if  from  weariness;  but  he 
was  quite  sure  that  she  was  still  watching  him  from  the 
ambush  of  her  long  lashes. 

Volley  followed  him  to  the  door. 

"  Have  you  told  me  all  you  know,  Morris?"  she  asked, 
insinuatingly. 

"You  are  complimentary,  I  vow,  to  both  your  daugh- 
ter and  me." 

194 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"  I  don't  think  I  had  better  say  anything  to  Harvey 
about  this,"  she  answered,  coolly. 

"  I  should  advise  you  to  tell  him  all  about  it,"  he  said, 
dryly. 

"If  I  don't,  I  suppose  you  will." 

"I  am  quite  likely  to." 

"Then  I'll  tell  him  myself.  Why  haven't  you  been 
around  lately?  Afraid  of  me,  on  account  of  that  Ceres 
business?"  She  laughed  unpleasantly. 

"Oh  no.  I  knew  you  understood  my  attitude,  and 
didn't  care  how  it  went,  anyhow,"  he  answered,  with 
caressing  irony,  and  bade  her  good-night. 


XXIII 

HE  went  to  his  rooms,  but  not  to  bed.  That  mo- 
ment when  Bertha  reeled  out  into  the  light,  with 
a  terrified  glance  behind,  and  sank  to  the  ground,  re- 
peated itself  again  and  again  to  him,  like  a  stubborn 
nightmare.  But  after  a  while  his  imagination  extend- 
ed the  picture,  and  he  could  see  her  skulking  in  the  dark- 
ness before  Josephine's  home,  like  a  thief,  eaten  by 
jealousy,  trying  for  a  glimpse  of  him  and  Josephine,  and 
holding  her  breath  for  an  incautious  word.  It  was 
squalid,  revolting.  But  it  was  also  desperately  pathetic. 
Then  he  quietly  asked  himself,  with  a  stiffness  around 
his  lips,  if  the  blood  of  this  woman's  outraged  modesty 
was  on  his  hands.  The  next  moment  he  hooted  the 
thought,  but  it  circled  wearily  through  his  brain  all 
night  long,  in  his  dreams. 

In  the  morning  the  affair  had  lost  much  of  its  tragedy, 
but  it  was  still  an  exceedingly  ugly  memory  to  begin 
the  day  with.  Bertha  did  not  appear  at  the  office,  for 
which  he  was  glad.  He  hoped  no  clients  would  appear, 
either.  About  four  o'clock,  after  a  restless  day,  he 
walked  into  Feversham's  drug-store  and  bought  a  cigar. 

"Come  back  here,  Tom,"  said  he.  "I  want  to  talk 
to  you." 

Feversham  was  a  man  past  fifty,  nearly  bald,  with  a 
large,  oval,  mobile  face,  and  a  soft,  womanish,  brown 
eye.  He  was  not  rich;  he  belonged  to  no  religious, 
social,  or  fraternal  organization;  he  held  no  political 
office,  Yet  he  was  regarded  as  one  of  the  solid  citizens 

196 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

of  Tellfair.  His  opinion  was  always  sought  in  matters 
concerning  the  public  welfare.  He  was  reputed  the 
best-read  man  in  town,  and  was  a  walking  encyclopaedia 
for  people  who  owned  no  other  kind.  With  local  dis- 
putants, who  made  a  forum  of  his  store,  he  was  a  court 
of  highest  appeal,  and  many  a  wager  had  been  settled 
by  him. 

As  might  be  guessed,  he  was  quiet  and  unassuming. 
Unless  appealed  to,  he  would  let  the  village  wiseacres 
wrangle  by  the  hour  in  his  presence  without  opening  his 
lips.  Yet,  when  he  spoke,  his  opinion  was  rendered  in 
no  uncertain  language,  and  he  cared  not  whom  he  hit. 
Naturally,  his  enemies  were  neither  few  nor  lukewarm; 
but,  on  the  whole,  he  was  a  popular  man  without  hav- 
ing ever  turned  his  hand  over  to  win  popularity.  Few 
people,  though,  even  among  his  friends,  suspected  the 
tenderness  which  lay  beneath  his  rather  cold  exterior. 
Davenport  was  one  of  the  few,  and  for  years  the  two 
had  been  bosom  companions. 

Feversham  took  a  cigar  for  himself  also,  and  followed 
Davenport  to  the  rear  of  the  store,  in  front  of  the 
prescription-case,  where  a  number  of  chairs  were  scat- 
tered about  to  accommodate  the  tired,  the  social,  and 
the  disputatious — and  now  and  then  a  customer. 

"Tom,  some  time  ago  you  were  bold  enough  to  warn 
me  that  Bertha  Congreve  might  come  to  think  too  much 
of  me,"  said  Morris,  frankly,  after  a  puff  or  two. 

Feversham  waited,  mirroring  the  speaker  in  his  limpid 
eyes. 

"  I  didn't  pay  much  attention  then — first,  because  I 
didn't  believe  it;  secondly,  because  I  fancied  I  was  get- 
ting to  think  a  good  deal  of  her." 

Feversham  still  waited.  His  unwavering  glance  would 
have  disconcerted  some  people;  but  Davenport  knew 
him,  and  it  was  a  luxury  to  state  his  case  slowly  and  at 
length,  without  fear  of  interruption  or  snap  judgment. 

197 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"  Believing  this,  I  saw  no  harm  in  letting  things  drift. 
But,  understand,  I  didn't  see  how  I  could  stop  them, 
even  had  I  feared  harm.  You  know  my  relations  with 
the  family,  and  you  know  that  she  is  in  my  office  be- 
cause the  family  needs  her  wages.  I  now  believe  that 
you  were  right,  Tom.  She  does  think  a  good  deal  of  me, 
and  I  have  discovered  that  I  don't  think  as  much  of  her 
as  I  thought.  Now  to  what  class  of  knaves  would  you 
assign  me?  Or  would  you  simply  label  me  a  fool?" 

"  How  do  you  know  that  she  loves  you?"  asked  Fever- 
sham,  not  at  all  startled  by  Davenport's  revelation — 
somewhat  to  the  young  man's  relief. 

Davenport  gave  him  a  detailed  account  of  certain 
incidents,  ending  with  the  one  of  the  night  before. 

"The  evidence  certainly  favors  your  conclusion,"  said 
Feversham,  with  grim  humor. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  think  me  unduly  sentimental, 
Tom,"  continued  Davenport,  "but  I  think  the  situation 
is  grave.  I  am  of  the  opinion  that  Bertha  has  grown 
thin  and  pale  over  this  matter,  though  I  wouldn't  have 
believed  her  capable  of  it  once.  Women  have  wrecked 
their  lives  before  on  this  rock.  I  don't  believe  Bertha 
is  going  to  do  that.  Sometimes  I  don't  believe  it  is 
even  going  to  make  her  unhappy  long.  But  I  can't 
escape  a  sense  of  guilt.  I  let  things  drift  when  I  sus- 
pected she  was  learning  to  love  me,  and  because  I  felt 
that  I  was  learning  to  love  her.  I  think  yet  that  I  was 
right,  in  part.  If  a  man  flies  from  a  woman  just  be- 
cause he  doesn't  love  her,  how  will  he  ever  learn  to  love 
her?  At  the  same  time,  when  the  venture  miscarries, 
the  woman  has  to  suffer." 

"  Unless  the  man  happens  to  resemble  a  fellow  I  know 
out  in  Kansas.  He  was  courting  his  present  wife  in  the 
same  experimental  way  you  adopted.  He  decided  in  the 
course  of  time  that  she  wasn't  the  one  woman  in  the 
world  for  him  —  just  as  you  have.  So  he  started  to 

198 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

crawfish,  very  cautiously.  He  began  by  reducing  his 
calls  from  seven  a  week  to  six,  joining  a  lodge  for  an 
excuse.  She  pouted,  cried,  and  finally  fainted.  At 
least  he  thought  she  did,  for  she  grew  very  white, 
closed  her  eyes,  and  did  not  answer  when  he  spoke.  So 
he  gave  that  plan  up,  and  tried  another.  He  gave  up 
all  his  playful  attentions  and  became  strictly  impersonal 
in  his  calls.  He  talked  nothing  but  letters  and  art, 
politics,  history,  and  foreign  happenings — all  of  which 
she  knew  nothing  about.  In  short,  he  tried  to  bore 
her  love  to  death.  It  was  a  dismal  failure.  She  would 
sit  and  listen  to  him  for  hours,  or  drowse  in  his  arms. 
Therefore,  being  a  man  who  dislikes  a  fuss  of  any  kind 
and  can't  bear  to  see  people  suffer,  he  married  her  as  the 
easiest  way  out.  They  have  three  children  now,  and, 
so  far  as  I  know,  are  leading  an  average  married  life." 

Davenport  eyed  the  narrator  furtively  through  a  cloud 
of  smoke.  There  was  an  elusive  gleam  in  the  druggist's 
eye,  but  no  one  could  have  said  positively  that  he  was 
joking.  Davenport  was  of  the  opinion  that  he  was  not. 

' '  I  suppose  some  men  in  my  place  would  marry 
Bertha?" 

"That  man  from  Kansas  would." 

"  He's  a  weak  man." 

"Yes.     Weak,  with  good  intentions." 

"  What  would  a  strong  man  with  good  intentions  do?" 
asked  Davenport. 

"That's  what  I  am  waiting  to  see,"  said  Feversham. 
"Then  I  shall  have  Story  No.  2  to  tell."  He  added, 
seriously,  "He  would  first  get  her  out  of  his  office." 

"  I  can't  do  it,"  said  Davenport,  promptly.  "  It  would 
be  cruel.  She  would  know  at  once  what  it  meant,  and 
it  looks  underhand  to  me.  In  the  second  place,  the 
family  needs  her  wages,  as  I  said.  I  have  thought  that 
course  over  from  every  side,  and  it  won't  do,  Tom." 

"It  would  be  a  cruelty  that  in  the  end  would  prove 
199 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

a  mercy,"  said  Feversham,  bluntly.  "As  long  as  she 
sees  you  every  day,  and  .all  day,  the  same  influences 
that  have  drawn  her  to  you  will  hold  her  to  you.  Kennel 
a  dog  and  cat  together  long  enough,  and  they'll  suffer  if 
you  separate  them." 

"But  suppose  I  take  a  different  attitude  towards  her?" 

"Like  the  Kansas  man?"  asked  Feversham,  astutely. 
"You  might  try  it.  A  woman  is  a  mystery  to  me.  If 
you  are  kind  to  her,  she  will  love  you;  if  you  are  unkind, 
she  will  love  you  more.  That  goes  to  show  that  the  man 
has  nothing  more  to  do  with  her  love  than  a  wall  has 
with  the  growth  of  an  ivy.  Love  is  a  necessity  of  her 
being,  and  love  she  will — happily  if  she  can,  unhappily 
rather  than  not  at  all." 

"  Your  reflections  are  of  a  cheerful  nature  for  a  man  in 
my  fix,"  observed  Davenport,  dryly. 

"You  can  try  your  plan." 

"  I  have  tried  it,  to  be  honest,"  answered  Morris.  "  For 
weeks  I  have  come  down  to  my  office  like  an  oyster  in 
his  shell.  I  am  not  unkind,  but  I  withhold  a  hundred 
little  courtesies  every  day,  and  pleasantries,  that  I 
should  be  glad  to  show  her  if  she  wouldn't  misinterpret 
them.  Every  time  I  call  on  Josephine  Priestley  I  take 
pains  to  let  her  know  it.  But  it  makes  no  difference. 
She  treats  me  differently,  of  course,  but  I  can  see  that 
she  doesn't  feel  different.  I  have  hopes,  though,  that 
in  time  she  will — that  I  may  wear  her  love  out." 

"You  may,"  said  Feversham,  hopefully. 

"  Yet  I  doubt  it.  When  I  consider  how  superficial  she 
is  in  most  respects,  I  am  amazed  at  her  constancy  in  this 
matter.  And  when  I  consider  that  she  is  a  daughter  of 
Volley  Congreve,  who  would  tire,  I  think,  of  the  best  man 
on  earth  in  ninety  days,  to  say  nothing  of  one  who  ha- 
bitually mistreated  her,  I  am — well,  I  am  nonplussed." 

"  That's  just  the  one  kind  of  man  that  Volley  would 
not  tire  of,"  answered  Feversham,  wisely.  "If  she  had 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

married  a  prize-fighter  who  would  have  occasionally 
used  her  for  a  punching-bag,  she  would  have  loved  him 
to  the  end.  That  is  the  nature  of  that  breed  of  creat- 
ures, and  Bertha  is  her  mother's  child.  At  the  same 
time,"  he  added,  more  kindly,  "it  is  well  to  remember 
that  she  is  also  Harvey's  child,  and  Harvey  was  never 
much  of  a  forgetter,  you  know,  except  of  injuries." 

A  woman  entered  the  store,  and  Feversham  went  for- 
ward to  wait  on  her.  Davenport  also  strolled  forward 
and  leaned  preoccupiedly  against  the  counter.  When 
the  customer  had  gone,  Feversham  continued: 

"Let  things  rock  along  a  little,  Morris.  Be  true  to 
yourself  and  honest  with  her,  and  the  affair  will  adjust 
itself.  It  may  take  time.  You  are  in  a  tight  place,  be- 
yond a  doubt,  for  an  honorable  man;  but  I  see  nothing 
for  you  to  do  at  present  except  to  stay  there  and  sweat. 
You  may  lubricate  yourself  sufficiently  in  that  way  to 
slip  out,"  he  added,  grinning.  "Still,  I  wish  you  could 
get  her  out  of  the  office,  for  both  your  sakes.  Think 
that  over  again." 

Davenport  returned  to  his  office  with  the  repugnance 
for  it  which  a  man  feels  for  a  sleepless  bed.  He  wanted 
to  get  Bertha  out  of  his  mind,  and  everything  about  his 
office  put  her  in  his  mind.  As  he  dropped  down  dispirit- 
edly at  his  desk,  he  started  at  sight  of  an  envelope  ad- 
dressed to  him  in  Bertha's  handwriting.  It  had  evi- 
dently been  left  in  his  absence.  He  dreaded  to  open  it, 
for  he  had  a  premonition  that  it  was  going  to  force  a 
crisis.  Slowly  and  reluctantly,  however,  he  slit  it  with 
a  paper-knife,  and  with  a  downcast  face  began  the  pe- 
rusal of  the  letter  inside. 

Suddenly  he  brought  the  paper  down  on  the  desk  with 
a  resounding  thwack,  folded  his  arms,  and  looked  around 
the  room  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  been  given  a 
new  lease  of  life. 

"Thank  God  for  that!"  he  said,  aloud,  fervently  and 

201 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

distinctly.     Then  he  took  the  letter  up  and  read  it 
through  again. 

"DEAR  MORRIS, — I  feel  so  badly  over  the  terrible  mis- 
take of  last  night  that  I  must  write  to  you  and  explain, 
though  I  am  still  in  bed.  I  can't  let  you  remain  any 
longer  under  the  impression  that  I  am  as  shameless  as  you 
must  now  think  me. 

"  I  was  to  spend  last  night  with  Carrie  Stone,  but  about 
half-past  ten,  or  a  little  before,  I  began  to  feel  so  sick  that 
I  felt  I  ought  to  go  home,  in  case  I  should  get  worse.  I 
think  it  was  the  heat,  Carrie  wanted  her  father  to  go  with 
me,  but  I  knew  he  had  gone  to  bed,  and  I  told  her  I  wasn't 
afraid.  It  was  such  a  beautiful  night  that,  instead  of  going 
straight  home,  I  walked  around  a  little,  feeling  that  it  would 
do  me  good. 

"Finally  I  found  myself  in  front  of  Miss  Priestley's.  I 
supposed  they  were  all  in  bed,  and  when  you  stepped  out 
of  the  gate  at  just  that  moment  it  frightened  me  terribly 
until  I  recognized  you.  Then  I  thought,  '  He  will  think 
it  strange  of  me  to  be  out  alone  so  late.'  I  thought,  too, 
that  you  might  think  I  was  spying  on  you.  So  I  stepped 
behind  a  tree  to  let  you  pass.  But  at  the  last  moment  I 
dared  not  take  the  chance  of  being  seen,  so  I  foolishly  ran. 
You  know  the  rest. 

"  I  have  suffered  so  all  day,  to  have  you  think,  as  I  know 
you  must,  that  I  had  so  far  lost  my  self-respect  as  to  spy  on 
you.  But  certainly  there  would  be  no  satisfaction  in  such 
a  thing  to  me,  even  if  I  had  no  scruples  to  restrain  me. 
Please  say  nothing  of  this  to  mamma.  After  what  you 
told  her  last  night,  I  could  not  very  well  tell  her  the  truth, 
but  it  is  just  as  well.  So  please  be  careful. 

"Sincerely, 

"BERTHA." 


XXIV 

BERTHA  had  intended,  as  she  said  in  her  letter,  to 
spend  the  night  with  her  bosom  friend,  Carrie 
Stone.  In  the  afternoon,  Davenport  had  casually  men- 
tioned, in  accordance  with  his  "weaning"  plan,  that 
he  intended  to  call  on  Miss  Priestley  that  evening. 
He  had  been  calling  there  so  frequently  of  late  that 
the  remark  did  not  disturb  Bertha  much  at  the  time. 
She  was  acquiring  a  kind  of  resignation.  But  as  she  sat 
on  the  Stones'  spacious  porch  that  night  with  Carrie,  the 
starry  silence  and  the  fragrant  summer  air,  together  with 
the  thought  that  Morris  was  with  Josephine  instead  of 
with  her,  induced  a  melancholy  mood. 

"Cheer  up!"  said  Carrie,  after  a  long  silence. 

But  Bertha  could  not  cheer  up,  and  after  a  little  Carrie 
asked  her  what  the  trouble  was.  Bertha  would  have 
loved  to  tell  her,  but  scarcely  dared;  so  she  answered 
that  she  was  not  well. 

As  the  evening  advanced,  she  grew  restless.  Her  fancy 
conjured  up  visions  of  Davenport  and  Miss  Priestley, 
now  sitting  on  the  porch,  now  strolling  under  the  trees, 
now  dallying  over  light  refreshments,  but  always  in  a 
state  of  serene  enjoyment.  She  could  almost  hear  Jose- 
phine's low,  mellow  laughter  as  Davenport  related  some 
of  the  stories  or  experiences  of  which  he  was  full.  Or — 
her  fancy  growing  reckless — she  could  see  Josephine's 
head  inclining  modestly  lower  and  Morris  bending  near- 
er, murmuring — what? 

A  prey  to  these  harrowing  thoughts,  Bertha  became 

203 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

fairly  feverish.  Davenport  would  naturally  pass  the 
Stone  home  in  returning  to  his  lodgings,  and  she  started 
at  every  footfall  in  the  direction  of  the  Priestleys'.  She 
was  glad,  in  a  way,  that  she  was  with  Carrie  instead  of 
at  home.  She  wanted  to  see  Davenport  go  by,  she  want- 
ed to  know  when  he  left  Josephine.  But  as  it  grew  late 
and  he  did  not  come,  she  conceived  an  intense  desire  to 
know  certainly  whether  he  was  really  prolonging  his  visit 
thus  or  had  gone  home  another  way.  It  was  on  the  tip 
of  her  tongue  half  a  dozen  times  to  suggest  to  Carrie  that 
they  take  a  walk,  which  she  would  see  should  take  them 
past  the  Priestleys'.  But  each  time  her  guilty  con- 
science made  her  afraid. 

"Carrie,"  said  she,  abruptly.     " I  am  going  home.     I 
feel  worse,  and  I  might  get  sick  in  the  night." 
•  Carrie  looked  at  her  friend  in  astonishment. 

"  Why,  Bert,  are  you  really  sick?  Let  mamma  fix  you 
something  to  take." 

"No,"  said  Bertha,  firmly,  as  she  arose.  "I'll  go 
home."  Nothing  could  have  held  her  now. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Bertha,  desperately,  by  this 
time  half  believing  her  own  pretence.  "  I  haven't  been 
well  all  day.  I  feel  so  shaky  and  queer." 

"Why,  you  are  feverish!"  exclaimed  Carrie,  as  she 
touched  Bertha's  hot  hand.  "Wait  till  I  get  papa,  and 
we'll  walk  home  with  you." 

"No,"  said  Bertha,  decisively.  "He  is  probably  in 
bed  by  this  time,  and  I  am  not  afraid.  Good-bye.  I'll 
be  all  right  in  the  morning." 

"  You  sha'n't  go  alone,"  protested  Carrie,  turning  tow- 
ards the  door  to  call  her  father. 

"Carrie,"  said  Bertha,  sternly,  "if  you  go  after  your 
father  I  shall  run  away  while  you  are  gone.  I  am  not  a 
bit  more  afraid  to  go  home  alone  than  I  am  to  cross  this 
porch,  and  I  won't  let  you  disturb  him.  Good-bye." 

204 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

And  before  Carrie  could  remonstrate  further  her  guest 
had  gone,  leaving  her  night-gown  and  tooth-brush,  wrap- 
ped in  a  paper,  behind. 

Bertha  started  towards  home,  but  at  the  next  corner 
she  crossed  the  street  and  made  her  way  swiftly  back 
towards  the  Priestley  home,  two  blocks  farther  up  the 
street.  She  repassed  the  Stone  house  without  fear,  for 
even  if  Carrie  were  still  on  the  porch,  which  was  unlikely, 
it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to  recognize  any  one  across 
the  street. 

Bertha  drew  a  breath  of  relief  at  a  light  up-stairs  in  the 
Priestley  house.  The  girls  were  evidently  going  to  bed. 
But,  to  satisfy  herself,  she  crossed  the  street  and  paused 
in  front  of  the  house.  All  was  as  still  as  a  graveyard, 
and  the  tumult  in  her  jealous  little  bosom  began  to  die 
away.  Davenport  had  probably  gone  home  long  before 
— as  early,  perhaps,  as  he  used  to  leave  her  house. 

But  as  she  turned  away,  low  voices  on  the  side  porch 
suddenly  arrested  her  steps.  Stepping  forward  almost 
fiercely  to  where  she  could  enfilade  the  porch  with  her 
eyes,  she  made  out  two  blurred  figures  in  the  darkness. 

She  stood  there  for  what  seemed  hours  and  watched 
those  two  dark  spots  as  a  castaway  might  watch  a  distant 
patch  of  sail,  as  a  gaunt  cat  might  watch  a  rat,  holding 
her  breath  and  almost  her  pulse  to  catch  one  word,  even 
though  that  word  might  pierce  her  heart,  starting  fear- 
fully at  every  sound,  remote  or  near,  the  hot  blood  leap- 
ing to  her  face  and  neck  at  the  slightest  movement  of  the 
two  shadows.  Meanwhile,  she  felt  her  self-respect,  her 
modesty,  her  honor,  oozing  away,  and  did  not  care.  The 
blood  of  her  mother  was  up  in  her. 

At  last  she  saw  the  figures  rise,  heard  their  low  good- 
nights,  and  saw  Davenport  coming  down  the  gravelled 
walk.  Still  she  stood  like  one  in  a  trance.  It  was  only 
when  he  stepped  through  the  gate  that  she  awoke  and 
felt  the  shame  of  her  position.  Fear  pinned  hereto  the 

205 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

spot  for  an  instant.  Then,  panic-stricken,  she  broke  and 
ran,  knowing  that  she  must  be  seen,  but  hoping  to  escape 
unrecognized  in  the  dark. 

Whither  she  fled  she  scarcely  knew.  But  with  the 
instinct  of  the  hunted  beast,  for  she  heard  her  pursuer 
behind,  she  shunned  the  street-lamps,  dodged  corners, 
and  doubled  on  her  trail  like  a  hare.  Then,  weary  unto 
death,  after  making  that  long  circuit  which  nearly  wind- 
ed Davenport  himself,  too  weak  to  cross  the  street  again 
to  avoid  the  lamp  ahead,  too  desperate  to  care,  she  seized 
Dr.  Burney's  pickets  to  keep  from  falling,  closed  her  eyes, 
and,  like  a  drowning  man  whose  force  is  spent,  resigned 
herself  to  fate.  All  that  followed  was  a  dream  until  she 
awoke  in  her  bed,  with  her  mother  bending  over  her, 
Davenport  not  far  away,  and  the  odor  of  hartshorn  in  her 
nose. 

She  awoke  late  the  next  morning  to  find  that  she  had 
slept  soundly  all  night,  to  her  great  surprise.  A  de- 
lightful languor  pervaded  every  fibre  of  her  body.  The 
lifting  of  her  lids  gave  her  a  pleasurable  sense  of  physical 
exercise,  and  was  as  much  as  she  cared  to  attempt. 

In  this  enervated  state  the  events  of  the  night  before 
— her  degradation  and  the  certain  loss  of  Davenport's 
respect — were  of  little  moment.  She  actually  smiled. 
Even  death  itself,  of  which  she  was  usually  unwhole- 
somely  afraid,  had  no  terrors  for  her.  Indeed,  she 
fancied  it  would  be  rather  a  fine  thing  to  die  now,  es- 
pecially if  she  could  thus  make  Davenport  regret  his 
cruelty  to  her  the  rest  of  his  life. 

But  some  hot  broth  made  her  blood  move  again,  and 
the  things  of  this  world — love,  remorse,  dishonor — loom- 
ed once  more  in  their  normal  proportions.  The  old 
heartache  came  back.  A  rage  of  shame  and  self -scorn 
took  possession  of  her;  and,  when  she  told  Davenport  in 
her  letter  that  she  had  suffered,  she  spoke  only  the 
truth. 

206 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

The  work  of  the  night  before  must  be  undone  at  any 
cost,  she  felt,  and  that  cost  was  a  lie — a  bold,  unblushing, 
elaborate,  artful  lie.  Yet  this  did  not  strike  her  as  an 
extortionate  price.  She  was  getting  off  rather  lightly, 
she  fancied.  But  when  the  letter  had  been  despatched 
by  a  neighbor's  little  girl,  she  solemnly  vowed  that  it 
should  be  the  last  lie  of  her  life,  and  the  work  of  the 
night  before  the  last  shameful  act  of  her  life. 

There  was  a  melancholy  pleasure  in  the  thought  of 
living  a  noble,  blameless  life  henceforth  for  the  sake  of 
him  she  loved,  though  he  did  not  love  her.  There  was  a 
fascination,  also,  for  her  melodramatic  mind,  in  the  idea 
of  fading  away  under  Davenport's  neglect,  provided  only 
that  he  should  know  why  she  faded.  She  was  not  just 
serious  in  this,  perhaps,  but  neither  was  she  simply 
amusing  herself.  She  really  had  an  idea  that  she  might 
die  of  a  broken  heart,  and  she  knew  that  she  was  losing 
flesh.  It  rather  pleased  her,  therefore,  after  she  was 
out  again,  in  a  day  or  two,  when  people  noted  her  falling 
off;  and  she  always  responded  to  their  inquiries  as  sweet- 
ly and  patiently  as  she  knew  how,  yet  looking  as  wan 
and  ethereal  as  possible. 

When  her  mother  suggested,  a  few  days  later,  that 
she  go  and  consult  Dr.  Burney,  she  went  with  alacrity. 
Without  really  meaning  to  do  so,  she  completely  hood- 
winked that  kind-hearted,  incompetent  old  practitioner, 
and  rather  alarmed  him.  Her  malady,  however,  mysti- 
fied him.  He  therefore  promptly  pronounced  it  general 
debility — a  safe  and  convenient  diagnosis,  and  one  that 
could  later  be  merged  into  something  more  specific. 

But  while  this  diagnosis  satisfied  the  girl  and  her  par- 
ents, it  did  not  satisfy  the  doctor  himself.  Profession- 
ally, Nathan  Burney  had  fossilized  thirty  years  before. 
In  that  period  few  if  any  drops  of  new  knowledge  had 
filtered  into  his  brain  from  the  brimming  reservoir  of 
scientific  discovery.  But  his  conscience  was  as  tender 

207 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

as  ever,  and  it  gave  him  no  rest  in  this  case  until  he  one 
day  astounded  Harvey  Congreve  by  telling  him,  with 
all  the  solemnity  and  delicacy  befitting  such  a  com- 
munication, that  his  daughter  was  suffering  from  un- 
requited love. 

No  acuteness  of  the  old  doctor's,  however,  had  led  him 
to  this  startling  discovery.  Indeed,  so  far  from  being 
able  to  follow  the  subtle,  sinuous  trail  of  a  diseased  mind, 
the  trail  of  a  diseased  body  was  often  none  too  plain  for 
his  purblind  eyes.  In  at  least  two  instances  he  had 
diagnosed  diphtheria  as  quinsy,  and  had  complacently 
prescribed  for  the  latter  until  the  true  disease,  like  a 
band  of  busy  sappers  working  under  cover  of  the  night, 
had  intrenched  itself  beyond  dislodgment. 

The  truth  was,  the  doctor  had  stumbled  upon  his  dis- 
covery. Dropping  into  Feversham's  drug-store  one  af- 
ternoon for  his  customary  five-cent  cigar,  of  which  he 
allowed  himself  one  a  day,  he  confided  his  perplexity 
over  Bertha's  case  to  Tom.  Tom  had  been  studying 
Bertha's  case  himself,  and  it  flashed  over  him  that  here 
was  the  golden  opportunity,  without  betraying  any- 
body's confidence  or  giving  anybody  undue  pain,  to  cut 
at  least  one  of  the  strands  of  Davenport's  bond. 

"Have  you  analyzed  the  air  in  Davenport's  office?" 
he  asked. 

The  old  gentleman  blinked  uncomprehendingly. 

"I  think  the  air  in  Davenport's  office  disagrees  with 
Bertha,"  added  Feversham,  a  shade  more  plainly. 

"Why,  there  can  be  nothing  wrong  with  that  air,"  an- 
swered Burney,  still  in  perplexity.  "  Davenport's  health 
is  of  the  best.  Do  you  mean  her  close  confinement?" 

"Yes — her  close  confinement  with  Davenport." 

Feversham's  look  was  so  significant  that  the  cloud  of 
mystification  slowly  lifted  from  Dr.  Burney's  little,  wiz- 
ened face,  and  his  blue  eyes  opened  as  wide  as  a  child's. 

"Do  you  mean  that  she  loves  him?"  he  whispered. 
208 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"  I  might  mean  that,"  answered  Feversham;  "  though, 
mind  you,  I  only  said  that  the  air  was  bad." 

Dr.  Burney  carried  this  momentous  secret  in  his 
bosom,  on  his  daily  rounds,  for  a  week  or  more,  with- 
out knowing  just  what  to  do  with  it  or  what  change  to 
make  in  his  prescriptions.  Then,  as  it  grew  heavier  and 
heavier,  he  shifted  it,  with  many  misgivings,  and  yet 
with  a  sigh  of  relief,  to  Harvey  Congreve. 

Harvey  was  at  first  incredulous,  even  indignant.  But 
as  Dr.  Burney  nervously  pointed  out,  the  evidence  was 
before  him  in  Bertha's  languor,  loss  of  appetite,  sadness, 
and  fits  of  abstraction.  Harvey  recalled,  too,  that  Dav- 
enport had  not  been  coming  to  the  house  as  often  of 
late.  The  significance  of  this  had  never  occurred  to  him 
before,  for  in  his  eyes  his  daughter  was  yet  a  child.  But, 
with  his  usual  magnanimity,  he  at  once  absolved  Daven- 
port from  blame.  It  was  simply  one  of  those  unfortunate 
occurrences,  he  reflected,  for  which  no  one  in  particular 
is  responsible. 

He  said  nothing  to  Volley  for  a  week.  At  the  end  of 
that  time  he  was  convinced  that  Dr.  Burney  was  right. 
Calling  his  wife  into  his  study  one  afternoon,  he  told  her 
briefly  what  the  doctor  had  said.  There  was  a  time 
when  he  would  have  made  a  communication  of  this 
nature  with  his  arm  around  her  waist  or  his  lips  upon 
her  cheek;  but  that  time  had  gone,  never  to  return,  and 
she  now  stood  half  the  width  of  the  room  away. 

She  took  the  revelation  very  tamely.  Yet  a  subtle 
change  did  take  place  in  her.  After  an  instantaneous 
gleam,  her  big,  gray  eyes  grew  studiously  lazy  and  dull, 
in  a  characteristic  yet  quite  indescribable  manner,  but 
just  as  if  she  were  drawing  a  thin  curtain  over  the  win- 
dows of  her  soul  while  leaving  the  shutters  open.  A 
very  keen  observer  would  have  looked  for  some  trick- 
ery to  follow.  Yet  what  trickery  could  follow,  anybody 
would  have  been  puzzled  to  say. 

*4  2OQ 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Do  you  believe  it?"  she  asked. 

"Something  is  wrong  with  the  child." 

"She  is  merely  out  of  sorts." 

"She  is  more  than  out  of  sorts,"  answered  Harvey. 
"  She  has  been  ailing  for  three  months,  and  I  don't  mind 
saying  now  that  I  have  been  alarmed.  Since  Dr.  Bur- 
ney  told  me  this,  I  have  watched  her  carefully,  and  I 
believe  he  is  right." 

"Then  Morris  Davenport  has  been  tampering  with 
her,"  said  she,  with  a  gust  of  spite.  She  had  been 
nursing  a  hostility  against  him  ever  since  the  Ceres  mat- 
ter. His  participation  in  Bertha's  mysterious  night 
adventure  had  added  to  it.  This  last  fanned  it  into 
flame. 

"You  have  no  right  to  make  such  a  grave  charge  off- 
hand," said  her  husband,  sternly. 

Volley  turned  on  her  heel  into  the  bay-window  and 
glanced  out.  She  stood  there  for  some  time,  crushing 
between  her  fingers,  leaf  by  leaf,  a  branch  of  the  magnif- 
icent sword-fern  which  hung  from  the  ceiling.  The  de- 
struction may  have  been  unconscious,  it  may  have  been 
spiteful.  She  had  no  love  for  flowers.  Those  in  the 
house  were  Harvey's,  and  too  often  he  had  to  carry 
water  himself  from  the  kitchen  to  keep  them  from 
perishing.  But  if  the  destruction  was  unconscious,  what 
followed  was  not,  for  she  carefully  dropped  the  mangled 
leaves  behind  a  flower-stand,  out  of  sight. 

"  No,  I  suppose  I  have  no  right,"  she  answered,  sullen- 
ly, at  last.  "  I  suppose,  of  course,  it  is  all  Bertha's  fault. 
It  always  is  the  woman's — poor  fool!  What  are  you 
going  to  do  about  it?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Dr.  Burney  suggested  that  we  take 
her  out  of  the  office  for  a  while." 

"Did  he  suggest  where  our  bread-and-butter  would 
come  from  meanwhile?" 

"We  certainly  ought  to  be  willing  to  make  that  much 
210 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

of  a  sacrifice  for  our  child.  We  can  live,  with  a  little 
economy,  without  her  wages  until  she  can  secure  an- 
other place." 

"I  deny  it,"  said  she,  angrily.  "We  can't  live.  We 
can  simply  exist.  Besides,  where  is  there  another  place 
in  this  town  that  a  girl  can  earn  ten  dollars  a  week  in?" 

"Not  ten,  perhaps,  but  six  or  eight." 

"What  excuse  will  you  make  to  her  for  taking  her 
out  of  the  office?  Tell  her  that  we  know  she's  in  love 
with  a  man  who  doesn't  love  her,  and  crush  her  pride 
forever?" 

"  Certainly  not.  We'll  simply  tell  her  that  her  health 
demands  a  rest." 

"When  she  is  rested,  what  excuse  will  you  make  for 
not  letting  her  go  back  to  Davenport  again?" 

"  I  fancy  she  won't  want  to  go  back  to  him,"  answered 
Harvey. 

"What  about  him  ?" 

"  If  he  doesn't  suspect  our  motive  in  taking  her  away, 
and  wants  her  back,  I  shall  tell  him  the  truth.  I  don't 
know  of  any  one,  outside  the  family,  that  I  could  tell  it 
to  more  easily.  But  I  think  he  probably  knows  it  now." 

"Yes,  I  think  it  very  likely,"  she  retorted. 

It  was  finally  agreed  between  them  to  take  no  im- 
mediate action.  Bertha  had  apparently  felt  a  little  bet- 
ter for  the  last  day  or  two.  Perhaps  the  problem  was 
solving  itself. 


XXV 

THE  great  annual  event  in  Tellfair  was  the  Coun- 
ty Fair.  During  these  four  days  the  village  lived 
longer  and  took  in  more  money  than  during  any  other 
four  weeks  of  the  year.  Reduced  railroad  rates  combed 
the  country  for  forty  miles  about.  Every  morning  long 
trains  brought  in  their  human  freight,  and  every  evening 
carried  it  away  again.  Every  morning,  also,  a  long  line 
of  vehicles  wound  towards  the  town  on  every  road, 
leaving  behind  a  choking  cloud  of  dust,  visible  across 
the  level  prairie  for  miles.  By  eight  o'clock  every  barn 
and  shed,  every  vacant  lot  and  pasture  within  the  village 
limits,  were  filled  with  horses,  wagons,  and  buggies. 

In  addition  to  these  transients,  who  brought  their 
lunches  or  bought  only  one  meal  in  town,  there  was  a 
host  to  be  taken  care  of  at  night  as  well,  and  fed  through- 
out the  week.  By  the  second  day  of  the  fair  the  Basley 
House  was  filled  to  overflowing.  Exhibitors,  stockmen, 
visitors  from  a  distance,  jockeys,  fakirs,  and  farmers 
jostled  one  another  in  office  and  dining-room.  The 
halls  were  packed  with  cots,  like  a  field-hospital;  and 
even  the  hard  office-chairs  were  not  infrequently  oc- 
cupied throughout  a  long,  torturous  night  by  unfort- 
unate late-comers.  Spare  rooms  in  private  houses  were 
thrown  open,  and  boarding-house  tables  were  swelled  out 
of  all  proportion  to  the  facilities  of  the  kitchen. 

Each  of  the  churches  had  a  "tent,"  as  the  wooden 
structure  was  called,  on  the  fair -grounds,  where  the 
hungry  were  fed  at  all  hours  —  though  not  without 

212 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

price.  During  this  week,  all  other  forms  of  church  ac- 
tivity were  suspended,  even  sermon-making;  and  here 
pastor  and  people  spent  their  time  in  turning  a  few 
honest  dollars  for  the  cause.  Each  tent  proclaimed  its 
denomination  in  letters  not  to  be  overlooked,  and  one 
could  begin  the  day  with  a  Presbyterian  breakfast,  stay 
himself  at  noon  with  a  Methodist  dinner,  and  recuperate 
at  night  with  a  Baptist  supper,  to  say  nothing  of  un- 
denominational lunches  in  between. 

Davenport  showed  Josephine  about  on  the  first  day. 
He  led  her  down  the  long  stock-sheds,  where  she  saw,  in 
all  their  pride  of  blood,  the  best  horses,  cattle,  sheep,  and 
hogs  which  the  county  produced.  He  knew  the  names 
of  the  endless  breeds  of  each.  He  pointed  out  a  Hoi- 
stein  cow  which  gave  seventy  pounds  of  milk  a  day,  and 
explained  that  this  was  equal  to  thirty-five  quarts.  He 
showed  her  a  white  steer  which  stood  six  feet  high  and 
weighed  thirty-three  hundred  pounds,  although  it  was 
far  from  fat,  and  was  reputed  to  be  the  biggest  steer  in 
the  world. 

The  advantages  of  such  an  escort  were  obvious. 
Farmers  led  out  their  fancy  calves  at  his  approach, 
punched  their  great,  unwieldy  bulls  to  their  feet — while 
Josephine  shuddered  for  the  daring  men's  lives — and 
gave  Davenport  and  her  a  thousand  facts  of  interest 
about  their  charges  which  a  casual  visitor  would  never 
have  learned. 

It  was  the  same  everywhere  they  went.  When  they 
stopped  at  a  stand  for  some  lemonade,  the  vender  push- 
ed back  Davenport's  quarter  and  said,  smilingly,  "The 
president's  money  is  no  good  here."  They  saw  the  Wild 
Girl  of  Australia  free  of  charge,  and  learned  confidentially 
from  the  showman,  besides,  that  she  was  merely  an  idiot 
from  a  neighboring  county,  with  her  face  walnut-stained. 
They  rode  for  nothing  on  the  merry-go-round,  and  the 
owner  of  the  Ocean  Wave  begged  the  favor  of  their 

213 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

presence  for  at  least  one  voyage,  but  Josephine  was 
afraid  it  would  make  her  dizzy.  They  heard  the  Georgia 
Minstrels — straight  from  South  State  Street,  in  Chicago. 

One  tent,  though,  with  a  great  painted  canvas  in 
front,  labelled  "Venus  Rising  from  the  Wave,"  they 
passed  by. 

"I  am  going  to  investigate  that  attraction  by  myself 
as  soon  as  I  get  through  with  you,"  said  Davenport.  "  It 
has  been  complained  of  as  immoral.  I  don't  suppose 
it  is — at  least,  not  glaringly  so — for  these  fellows  are 
pretty  shrewd  about  keeping  within  the  law;  but  if  I 
think  it  is  too  strong  meat  for  those  boys  I'll  close  the 
place  up." 

In  Poultry  Hall  they  saw  tiers  of  cages  containing 
ducks,  chickens,  turkeys,  geese,  guinea-fowls,  and  pig- 
eons. The  place  was  a  foretaste  of  pandemonium  in 
the  way  of  noise,  and  worse  in  the  way  of  odors,  and 
their  stay  was  brief.  In  another  building  were  heaps  of 
glossy,  red-cheeked  apples,  luscious  grapes,  giant  pump- 
kins and  squashes,  corn-stalks  ten  feet  high,  ears  of  the 
same  of  incredible  size,  and  measures  of  grains  and  seeds 
through  which  the  farmers  lovingly  ran  their  calloused 
fingers.  At  one  end  of  the  building  a  throng  of  house- 
wives elbowed  each  other  about  cheerfully  and  gazed 
with  rapt  eyes  at  golden  rolls  of  butter,  great  cheeses, 
and  rows  of  canned  fruit — a  display  to  make  one's  mouth 
water. 

Next  Davenport  took  her  to  see  the  machinery.  Big, 
red  threshing-machines,  driven  by  traction-engines, 
were  at  work ;  corn-shredders  and  feed-cutters  voracious- 
ly swallowed  whatever  was  fed  them,  and  viciously 
clicked  their  iron  teeth  for  more.  Gasolene  engines 
coughed ;  patent  churns  and  washing-machines  pounded 
and  rattled,  and  even  horses  were  curried  by  steam. 
Indeed,  with  all  these  dumb  servants,  one  wondered 
what  there  could  be  left  for  the  farmer  and  his  wife  to 

214 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

do.  But  their  bent  backs  and  hard  hands  showed  that 
there  was  something  left. 

In  spite  of  all  these  exhibits,  however,  and  balloon 
ascensions  and  snake-charmers  besides,  it  was  undeniable 
that  the  chief  attraction  of  the  fair  was  the  races.  Every 
year  the  grand-stand  was  enlarged ;  every  year  the  purses 
grew  bigger  and  the  entries  better  and  more  numerous. 
People  who  would  have  turned  their  virtuous  backs  upon 
a  trotting  association's  races  sat  in  the  grand-stand  day 
after  day,  and  arbitrated  the  matter  with  their  con- 
sciences after  the  fair  was  over.  Even  the  Reverend 
Julius  Poynter,  though  never  seen  in  the  grand-stand 
itself,  usually  managed  to  be  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  race-track,  simply  to  see  the  horses  warm  up. 

Old  Captain  Dusenbury,  marshal  of  the  grounds  for 
twenty  consecutive  years,  and  a  staid,  quiet  citizen  at  all 
other  seasons,  daily  spurred  his  stiff  old  clay-colored  horse 
up  and  down  the  space  in  front  of  the  judges'  stand,  keep- 
ing the  track  clear,  bawling  out  announcements  for  the 
following  day  until  he  was  red  in  the  face,  and  saluting 
the  ladies  in  martial  style.  His  grandeur  at  this  time 
would  have  been  incredible  to  one  who  had  only  seen 
him  spitting  tobacco-juice  on  the  stove  in  Tinwinkle's 
grocery  during  the  winter,  or  placidly  hoeing  his  garden 
in  the  spring,  clad  in  butternut  overalls. 

The  best  local  horses  were  Davenport's  and  Hayford's, 
of  course,  and  they  won  their  full  share  of  honors  against 
all  comers,  even  the  professionals  from  Chicago.  In  the 
Gentlemen's  Race  both  Davenport  and  Hayford  had,  by 
the  rules,  to  drive  their  own  horses.  It  is  not  probable 
that  either  of  them  seriously  objected,  having  made  the 
rule  themselves.  Josephine,  though,  did  not  just  relish 
the  sight  of  Davenport  on  a  sulky,  bending  over  his 
horse's  haunches,  with  its  tail  under  him  on  the  seat.  It 
made  him  look  too  much  like  Bradley  Hayford. 

But  when  the  horses  came  thundering  down  the 
215 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

stretch,  Davenport  and  Hayford  in  the  lead,  neck  and 
neck,  and  the  vast  assemblage  arose  as  one  man,  she  for- 
got these  scruples.  Nervous  chills  rippled  up  and  down 
her  spine,  and  when  Davenport's  beautiful  chestnut 
made  a  tremendous  final  spurt  and  shot  under  the  wire 
half  a  length  ahead  of  Hayford's  black,  she  gave  a  cry 
of  exultation.  The  next  instant  she  blushed  furiously, 
for  every  one  around  her  was  looking  and  smiling. 

Yet  not  quite  everybody,  for  Bertha  Congreve  sat  two 
or  three  tiers  above,  with  a  cold,  tranquil  face.  The 
pallor  which  was  now  habitual  with  her  accented  her 
aloofness.  Yet  when  her  mother,  who  was  openly  dis- 
appointed at  Hayford's  defeat,  murmured  something  to 
Bertha,  the  latter  answered,  in  a  voice  audible  to  Jose- 
phine: "I  am  glad  Morris  won.  He  doesn't  abuse  his 
horses  like  Bradley." 

Hayford  did  win  the  next  two  heats,  however,  giving 
him  the  race,  although  to  do  it  he  had  to  lash  his  horse 
mercilessly.  Davenport  took  his  defeat  amiably,  so  far 
as  could  be  seen  from  Josephine's  place.  She  knew 
that  he  had  set  his  heart  on  winning  that  race,  and  when 
he  came  up  to  her  a  few  minutes  later  she  curiously 
scanned  his  face  for  signs  of  chagrin.  She  was  learn- 
ing to  read  it,  mask  it  as  he  would.  Sure  enough,  there 
was  a  slight  indirectness  about  his  gaze,  usually  point- 
blank,  and  she  knew  that  he  was  keenly  disappointed. 

"  I  would  have  given  five  hundred  dollars  to  win  that 
race,"  said  he,  regretfully.  "What  hurts  me  most  is 
that  I  should  have  won  it  if  Hayford  hadn't  fouled  me 
on  the  last  heat  at  the  three-quarter  post.  He  blocked 
me  squarely  when  I  was  trying  to  pass  him." 

"Purposely?"  asked  Josephine,  indignantly. 

"With  any  other  man  I  might  have  thought  it  an 
accident.  But  I  know  Hayford  too  well." 

"Why  didn't  you  complain  to  the  judges?" 

Davenport  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
216 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"  They  couldn't  have  seen  it,  and  it  would  have  looked 
too  much  like  a  baby  act.  Hayford  had  considerable 
money  on  the  race,  and  wanted  to  win  badly." 

"Did  you  have  any  money  on  it?"  she  asked. 

"A  trifle." 

"  How  much  of  a  trifle?" 

"Nothing  to  speak  of." 

"But  I  want  you  to  speak  of  it." 

"Two  hundred  dollars,"  he  answered. 

She  fell  into  a  thoughtful  silence. 

"I  don't  believe  you  more  than  half  like  it,"  he  said, 
quizzically. 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  that,  although  I  am  not  sure 
that  I  do  like  it.  I  was  just  thinking  how  much  one 
could  do  with  two  hundred  dollars — provided  he  didn't 
bet  it  on  a  horse-race." 

Her  own  pinched  financial  condition  had  fathered  the 
thought.  But  he  did  not  know  that,  of  course. 


XXVI 

ON  the  last  day  of  the  fair,  Josephine  played  her  part. 
All  that  was  best  of  the  exhibits — all  the  bearers  of 
blue  ribbons,  either  animate  or  inanimate  —  were  mar- 
shalled into  line  and  led,  driven,  dragged,  or  hauled  once 
around  the  track.  In  the  judges'  stand  sat  the  directors 
of  the  fair,  and  the  mayor  and  other  prominent  citizens 
of  Tellfair.  The  grand-stand  opposite,  with  a  seating 
capacity  of  five  thousand,  was  packed  with  humanity,  for 
on  this  day  no  extra  admission  to  it  was  charged,  and 
there  were  many  there  whose  scruples  kept  them  out  of 
it  during  the  races. 

The  live-stock  came  first;  and  as  the  pace  was  reg- 
ulated by  stubborn,  homesick  bulls  and  apoplectic  hogs, 
the  advance  was  slow.  Next  came  the  agricultural  ma- 
chinery, drawn  by  traction-engines,  puffing  and  spark- 
ing, and  clanking  dismally.  Then  came  the  floats.  One 
was  a  mammoth  load  of  pumpkins,  fifteen  feet  wide  and 
twenty  feet  high.  Of  course,  it  was  hollow,  or  no  wheels 
in  the  county  could  have  supported  it.  Another  was 
devoted  to  grains,  another  to  dairy  products,  and  one 
to  woman's  handiwork  in  textiles. 

The  last  and  most  magnificent  float  was  entitled 
"  Plenty."  Piled  to  a  pyramidal  height  with  the  varied 
products  of  the  farm,  and  drawn  by  eight  splendid  white 
horses,  it  groaned  along  in  majestic  ponderosity.  Around 
the  base,  and  tucked  away  in  convenient  niches  all  the 
way  up  its  steep  sides,  was  a  number  of  little  girls  in 
flowing  hair  and  spotless  white,  representing  nymphs, 

218 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

fairies,  goddesses,  or  houris,  according  to  the  fancy  and 
classical  lore  of  the  spectator. 

High  above  these,  above  the  flowing  cornucopias  and 
sheafed  grain,  above  all  else,  sat  Ceres.  Her  arms  were 
bare  to  the  shoulder,  after  the  careless  manner  of  god- 
desses, and  shone  dazzling  white  in  the  clear  sunlight. 
The  heavy  band  of  gold  above  each  elbow  was  perhaps 
a  new  trinket  for  Ceres,  but  it  had  been  insisted  upon 
by  some  of  the  ladies  on  the  costume  committee,  and  it 
certainly  took  nothing  from  the  round,  full,  strong 
beauty  of  the  arm.  Her  jet-black  hair  was  twisted  in 
a  Greek  knot  behind.  Her  flowing  robe  fell  gracefully 
away  from  her  open  bosom — pleasingly,  though  certain- 
ly not  immodestly,  as  was  murmured  by  a  few  prudes 
who  had  no  bosoms  of  their  own. 

After  the  procession,  as  Josephine  emerged  from  the 
dressing-room  in  Art  Hall,  clad  once  more  in  the  habili- 
ments of  mortality — and  feeling  more  comfortable,  for 
the  sun  had  burned  her  tender  skin — she  met  old  Dr. 
Burney  in  his  buggy.  After  complimenting  her  with 
the  sentimental  frankness  allowed  septuagenarians,  he 
offered  her  a  ride  back  to  town,  half  a  mile  away.  But 
as  Davenport  had  brought  her  out,  she  declined  the  old 
gentleman's  courtesy. 

"The  young  goddess  spurns  the  aged  Nestor!"  he 
chuckled.  "  Never  mind !  Here  is  another  one  who  will 
do  just  as  well,  though  I  shall  have  to  take  her  mamma, 
too." 

It  was  Bertha  and  her  mother. 

"  I  think  she  will  really  be  more  grateful  than  I,"  said 
Josephine.  "  She  looks  so  tired." 

"  I  ordered  her  to  stay  at  home  to-day,"  grumbled  the 
old  man. 

"How  is  she,  Dr.  Burney?" 

"It's  hard  to  tell  just  when  a  malady  of  that  kind  is 
on  the  mend,"  he  answered,  with  owlish  wisdom.  Then, 

219 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

his  vanity  overcoming  his  professional  prudence,  he  add- 
ed, "You  know  her  trouble,  I  suppose." 

"No." 

"The  atmosphere  in  Davenport's  office  does  not  agree 
with  her,"  said  he,  as  complacently  as  if  he  had  origi- 
nated the  expression. 

She  at  first  took  him  literally,  as  he  had  taken  Fever- 
sham.  But  she  needed  no  explanation,  as  he  had.  His 
little,  knowing  blue  eyes  fairly  corkscrewed  his  meaning 
into  her.  The  rest  of  his  words  were  lost  upon  her. 
She  had  a  sudden  fear  of  Bertha  and  her  mother.  Yet 
she  awaited  their  approach,  and  greeted  them  with  out- 
ward calm. 

She  then  hurried  back  into  the  Art  building,  fairly 
panting.  She  wanted  to  avoid  everybody,  but  most  of 
all  Morris  Davenport.  She  wanted  to  avoid  him  for 
all  time  to  come.  She  saw  a  group  of  young  women 
whom  she  knew,  but  she  shrank  from  them.  They, 
too,  must  know  all  about  this  mysterious  malady  of 
Bertha's. 

She  was  still  standing  in  indecision  when  Davenport 
appeared  at  the  door  and  peered  in.  He  was  looking 
for  her,  she  knew,  and  probably  supposed  that  she  was 
still  in  the  dressing-room.  She  concealed  herself  be- 
hind a  group  of  statuary  until  he  turned  away,  and  then 
she  slipped  out  by  a  side  door.  Once  in  the  friendly 
seclusion  back  of  the  stock-sheds,  she  fairly  ran  until 
she  reached  a  gate  which  was  seldom  used.  Slipping 
out,  panting,  palpitating,  and  wretched,  she  found  her- 
self in  an  unfamiliar  lane.  The  way  to  the  village, 
though,  was  plain. 

She  passed  a  group  of  children  at  play.  They  laugh- 
ed, and  she  fancied  it  was  at  her.  Farther  along  she  met 
one  of  her  pupils,  and  the  girl  seemed  to  speak  coolly. 
Approaching  a  more  familiar  part  of  the  village,  she  saw 
an  old  man  sitting  under  a  tree  in  his  yard,  reading. 

220 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

She  recognized  him  as  the  superintendent  of  the  Pres- 
byterian Sunday-school.  He  must  have  heard  her 
steps,  but  he  did  not  look  up  or  speak.  She  thought 
he  must  have  seen  her  coming,  and  did  not  want  to 
speak. 

She  crept  into  the  house  like  a  thief.  Victoria  had 
not  yet  returned,  and  she  went  up  to  her  room  and  lay 
down  softly  on  the  bed.  After  a  while  she  heard  foot- 
steps below,  and  recognized  Victoria's  and  Elizabeth 
Catlin's  voices.  Victoria  came  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
and  called  "Josie!"  once  or  twice.  Josephine  did  not 
answer,  and  heard  Victoria  say,  "  I  guess  she  hasn't  come 
yet.  One  would  naturally  think  a  horse  would  make 
better  time  than  a  pedestrian."  Then  both  the  girls 
laughed  at  the  little  joke.  They  thought  she  was  with 
Davenport,  and  was  dallying  on  the  way.  Other  people, 
doubtless,  thought  so,  too,  and  again  her  heart  swelled. 
After  this  the  girls'  voices  died  away.  How  care-free 
and  innocent  they  were!  No  load  of  guilt  was  on  their 
hearts. 

When  Josephine  heard  Victoria  return  alone,  she  step- 
ped to  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  called:  "I  don't  feel 
very  well,  Victoria.  You  needn't  get  any  supper  for 
me." 

"Were  you  up-stairs  when  I  called?" 

"Yes,  but  I  thought  you  might  bring  Elizabeth  up, 
and  I  didn't  feel  like  talking." 

Such  a  mood  was  unusual  in  Josephine,  and  Victoria 
looked  up  the  stairs  wonderingly. 

"The  hot  sun  on  your  bare  head  was  too  much  for 
you,  honey!"  she  exclaimed.  "  Don't  you  want  a  cup  of 
strong  tea?" 

"You  might  make  me  some,"  answered  the  other, 
slowly.  "  Call  me  when  it  is  ready,  and  I'll  come  down." 

Victoria  did  not  call  her,  though,  but  brought  the  tea 
up,  and  scanned  her  sister's  face  solicitously.. 

221 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"You  looked  lovely  to-day,  dear.  Everybody  said 
so." 

"  I  didn't  feel  a  bit  lovely — it  was  so  hot  up  there.  My 
arms  are  all  sunburned." 

"You  poor  child,  no  wonder  you  feel  bad!  I'll  rub 
them  with  cold  cream  when  we  go  to  bed." 

Josephine  took  two  or  three  sips  of  the  hot  beverage. 

"Did  you  notice  Bertha  Congreve  to-day?"  she  asked. 
"She  looks  bad." 

"I  hear  she  has  consumption." 

The  tea-cup  in  Josephine's  hand  suddenly  jerked,  and 
a  little  of  the  tea  spilled. 

"That  can't  be  true,"  she  answered,  as  carelessly  as 
possible.  "If  people  get  a  little  run  down  there  is  al- 
ways, some  one  to  start  that  report.  I  was  talking  with 
Dr.  Burney  this  afternoon  about  her,  and  he  didn't  say 
anything  like  that." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

Josephine's  heart  sank.  She  simply  could  not  tell  her 
sister  the  truth. 

"  He  thought  her  trouble  was  more  mental  or — imag- 
inary." 

"  Dr.  Burney  isn't  considered  a  profound  medical  au- 
thority, from  what  I  hear,"  laughed  Victoria. 

"What  did  you  hear?" 

"Oh,  he's  always  diagnosing  wrong,"  and  she  men- 
tioned two  or  three  cases  the  girls  had  cited  to  her. 

A  ray  of  hope  shot  into  Josephine's  inner  darkness. 
Maybe  he  was  wrong  this  time. 

"Every  physician  makes  mistakes,  I  suppose." 

"He  makes  more  than  his  share."  Victoria  related 
how  some  of  the  dare-devil  young  men  of  the  town  had 
hoaxed  him  once  into  believing  that  one  of  their  number 
had  small-pox. 

"  That  was  cruel !"  said  Josephine,  but  laughed  merrily, 
almost  eagerly.  "  A  doctor  who  could  mistake  paint 

222 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

spots  for  pox  could  make  almost  any  blunder.  Who 
told  you  Bertha  had  consumption?" 

"Some  of  the  girls." 

"They  didn't  say  Dr.  Burney  said  so,  did  they?" 

"I  don't  know  that  they  did." 

"Who  did  they  say  had  said  it?" 

"Why, Jo!"  laughed  Victoria.  "This  tea  is  having  a 
decided  effect  on  you.  I  never  knew  you  to  be  so 
gossipy  before." 


XXVII 

MR.  DAVENPORT,"  said  Josephine,  "  I  have  some- 
thing to  tell  you,  and  yet  I  hardly  know  how  to 
do  it." 

It  was  the  second  or  third  night  after  the  fair,  and 
they  were  sitting  on  the  side  porch,  looking  through 
one  of  the  arches  of  climbing-rose  into  the  old-fashioned 
garden  of  peonies,  hollyhocks,  and  bleeding-hearts. 

"Fire  it  point-blank." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  should  wound  you."   She  smiled  a  little. 

"I'm  not  thin-skinned." 

"Some  things  will  pierce  even  a  thick  skin." 

"Well,  try  it." 

She  sat  for  a  moment  picking  at  her  handkerchief. 

"  Mr.  Davenport,"  said  she,  finally,  "  I  don't  think  you 
ought  to  come  here  so  much." 

He  did  not  answer,  and  she  sat  listening  to  the  beat- 
ing of  her  heart. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  he  asked,  after  what  seemed 
an  age. 

"I  could  tell  you  in  a  word,"  said  she,  tremulously. 

"Very  well.     Let's  have  it  in  a  word,  then." 

"You  won't  be  angry  or  hurt?"  she  asked,  wavering. 

"It  doesn't  make  any  difference  what  I  shall  be." 

"I'm  afraid  you  are  angry  already." 

"  No,  I  am  not,  though  I  must  confess  that  I  am  hurt. 
But  please  tell  me  the  worst,  and  have  it  over  with." 

"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  come  so  much  because 
of  your  relations  with  Bertha  Congreve,"  said  she. 

224 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

It  had  come  at  last.  He  had  been  braced  for  it  for 
many  a  day,  but  her  words  swept  him  off  his  feet  just 
the  same.  He  did  not  speak  for  some  time. 

"What  has  Bertha  to  do  with  it,  in  your  opinion?"  he 
asked,  at  last. 

"I  think  you  could  answer  that  question  better  than 
I,"  she  said,  timidly. 

"  I  said  in  your  opinion." 

"Well  —  I  know  only  what  I  have  heard.  I  don't 
mean  to  set  myself  up  as  a  judge  of  you,  or  to  insinuate 
that  you  are  acting  towards  her  in  any  but  the  most 
honorable  way." 

"Yet  you  assume  that  she  has  a  claim  upon  me." 

"No,  I  do  not." 

"What  have  you  heard?  You  say  you  have  heard 
something." 

"Yes,  but  I  wasn't  thinking  so  much  of  that.  I  am 
convinced,  from  my  own  observations,  that  Bertha 
thinks  a  great  deal  of  you.  I  am  equally  sure  that  she 
believes  that  I  have  come  between  you  and  her,  and  she 
hates  me  for  it.  I  can't  bear  to  have  her  believe  that 
I  have  stolen  you  from  her  when  you  and  I  are  only 
good  friends.  That  is  why  I  think  you  ought  not  to 
come  here  so  much." 

"Do  you  think  my  coming  here  less  frequently  will 
make  me  go  there  more  frequently?"  he  asked,  caus- 
tically. 

"What  you  do  there  is  none  of  my  business.  I  simply 
feel  that,  under  the  circumstances,  I  cannot  let  you  come 
here  so  often.  It  need  not  end  our  friendship.  I  don't 
want  it  to — I  don't  want  you  to  feel  that  it  will.  I — 
I  would  give  half  of  all  I  own  if  I  could  have  avoided 
telling  you  this." 

Her  voice  was  very  tender,  but  Davenport  did  not 
respond  with  a  kindred  feeling — yet. 

"It  will  end  it,  though,"  said  he.  "You  can't  box 
xs  225 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

a  friendship  up  like  that  and  expect  it  to  thrive.  How 
could  I  or  any  other  self-respecting  man  come  here  with 
a  sign  like  that  up — '  So  far  and  no  farther  '  ? " 

"I  do  not  judge  you,"  said  she,  softly  and  sweetly. 

"  I  want  you  to  judge  me.  If  you  find  me  worthy,  I 
want  all  the  privileges  that  worth  is  entitled  to.  If 
you  find  me  unworthy,  I  will  stay  away  altogether." 

"I  have  no  evidence  to  judge  you  by." 

"Would  you  like  some?"  he  asked,  significantly. 

She  thought  a  moment. 

"I  have  no  right  to  force  you  to  any  disclosures." 

"It  will  not  be  forcing." 

"  I  have  no  right  even  to  let  you  make  them,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"  Can  you  conceive  of  yourself  in  a  position  where  you 
would  have  a  right?"  he  asked,  with  a  suddenly  tight 
throat. 

"I  don't  believe  I  understand  you,"  she  murmured, 
but  the  flutter  in  her  voice  belied  her  words. 

"  I  mean  that  to  give  up  coming  here  would  cost  me 
a  great  deal,"  said  he,  amazed  that  his  voice  should 
shake  so. 

"So  it  would  me,"  she  answered,  almost  inaudibly. 
"But  if  it's  right!" 

"It  would  mean  so  much,"  he  continued,  huskily, 
"that  I  came  here  to-night  with  the  purpose — " 

"Is  that  Victoria  coming?"  she  asked,  nervously. 

He  paused.     It  was  a  false  alarm. 

"Josephine,"  he  continued,  bending  nearer,  "I  came 
here  to-night  to  ask  you  to  become  my  wife." 

Her  hands  were  folded  in  her  lap,  and  he  covered 
them  both  with  one  of  his.  For  a  time  she  did  not 
move,  did  not  so  much  as  lift  her  eyes;  but  he  could 
feel  her  fingers  twitching.  Then  she  gently  drew  her 
hands  from  under  his. 

"Mr.  Davenport,  I  cannot,"  said  she. 
226 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

He  changed  his  position  a  little.  She  thought,  per- 
haps, that  he  was  turning  away.  At  least,  she  sud- 
denly laid  her  hand  upon  his,  as  if  to  retain  it,  and  re- 
peated, eagerly,  "I  cannot,  Mr.  Davenport,  because — 
because  I  feel  it  would  be  wrong." 

"And  if  it  were  not  wrong?" 

"Oh,  do  not  ask  me!"  she  pleaded,  and  covered  her 
face. 

"Why  do  you  think  it  would  be  wrong?" 

"Because  I  could  not  be  happy  with  you  under  the 
circumstances.  That  woman  loves  you,  Morris.  How 
I  pity  her!  If  I  should  marry  you,  I  should  carry  a 
guilty  conscience  day  and  night.  Thoughts  of  her,  suf- 
fering from  unrequited  love,  would  come  between  you 
and  me  like  some  horrible  phantom,  and  poison  all  our 
joy." 

"You  still  blame  me,"  said  he,  sadly. 

"No,  no!  Believe  me,  I  do  not.  You  may  not  be 
entirely  innocent,  but  I  could  not  believe  you  guilty  of 
much  wrong.  I  can  see  just  how  it  happened.  I  know 
just  how  it  happened." 

"Then  why  do  you  hold  me  responsible?" 

"I  don't  hold  you  responsible,  Morris  —  I  don't,  I 
don't!"  she  protested,  with  all  her  woman's  heart  in 
her  voice  and  eyes,  and  wringing  her  hands. 

"But  you  are  going  to  make  me  suffer  for  it." 

She  tightened  her  fingers  around  his  hand,  and  looked 
at  him  wistfully,  with  a  sad  smile  upon  her  lips.  It 
seemed  to  be  sweet  to  hear  him  speak  of  suffering  be- 
cause of  her. 

"Yes,  and  I  am  going  to  suffer  with  you,"  she  said, 
softly. 

Davenport's  heart  suddenly  swelled  until  it  filled  his 
throat.  He  had  an  insane  desire  to  seize  her  and  press 
her  to  his  breast,  she  looked  so  sweet  and  white  and 
angelically  pure  in  the  soft,  summer  gloom. 

227 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"I  would  sooner  suffer  with  you,  Josephine,"  he  said, 
"  than  enjoy  with  another.  But  can  you  see  where  our 
suffering  will  help  Bertha  any?" 

"No." 

"And  it  won't  do  us  any  good?" 

"N-o." 

"Then  why  should  we  suffer?" 

"Because  we  can't  help  it,"  said  she,  solemnly.  "It 
is  not  of  our  choice.  We  should  suffer  whether  we  came 
together  or  stayed  apart.  Can't  you  understand  that?" 
she  asked,  with  a  little  motherly  air.  "  Don't  think  that 
I  am  straining  at  a  gnat.  I  simply  don't  feel  that  I 
could  righteously  marry  you.  I  don't  even  feel  right 
to  have  you  here  by  my  side  at  this  minute,  talking 
this  way.  I  feel  as  though  I  had  taken  you  from 
another.  Don't  get  angry !  I  did  it  innocently,  if 
I  have  done  it  at  all;  and  yet — I  had  several  warn- 
ings." 

"You  mean  in  what  you  saw?" 

"Yes." 

Silence  followed.  The  roses  stirred  slightly  in  the 
breathing  of  the  night. 

"Is  this  thing  always  to  keep  us  apart?"  he  asked. 

"Always  is  a  long  time  to  look  ahead." 

"But  what  can  remove  it?" 

"How  can  I  tell  you  that?"  she  asked,  plaintively. 
"But  when  it  is  removed  we  shall  know  it." 

"Has  Bertha  ever  spoken  to  you  about  this?" 

"Never." 

"Has  any  one  else?" 

"Yes — but  you  mustn't  ask  me  who." 

"And  you  still  think  I  must  stop  coming  here?" 

"I  did  not  say  stop — only  that  you  must  not  come 
so  often." 

"Well,  are  you  still  of  that  opinion?" 

She  gave  a  low  laugh. 

228 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

'What  a  man  you  are!  How  often  have  you  been 
coming  here,  do  you  think?" 

"About  three  times  a  week,  though  it  does  not  seem 
that  often." 

"Suppose  that  you  come  once  a  week  for  a  while, 
though  that  is  too  often." 

"The  weeks  will  be  each  a  year  long,"  he  answered, 
ruefully. 

"Try  it  and  see.  And,  remember,  we  are  both  to 
forget  all  that  has  happened  to-night." 

He  gave  her  a  derisive  glance. 

"Yes,  and  also  that  the  sun  rose  to-day." 


XXVIII 

WHAT'S  the  rift  in  your  and  Morris  Daven- 
port's little  lute,  my  lady?"  asked  Mrs.  Bow- 
man, playfully,  yet  with  undeniable  curiosity.  "Now 
don't  look  innocent.  I'm  not  a  man,  to  be  so  easi- 
ly hoodwinked  as  that.  I  know  there's  something 
wrong." 

"Then  you  know  more  than  I  do,"  declared  Jose- 
phine, laughing.  "I  was  talking  with  Morris  not  fif- 
teen minutes  ago,  and  I  am  sure  we  were  both  perfect- 
ly amiable." 

"Morris,  eh!"  repeated  Alice.  "I  noticed  you  had 
been  calling  him  that  of  late.  That  is  what  bothers  me. 
How  a  girl  can  begin  calling  a  man  by  his  Christian 
name  at  the  very  moment  she  is  giving  him  a  cold 
shoulder  is  a  decidedly  interesting  study." 

"  I  am  not  giving  him  a  cold  shoulder,"  protested  Jose- 
phine. 

"You  have  given  him  something  that  disagrees  with 
him.  He  has  been  a  perfect  bear  of  late." 

"He  dropped  in  to  see  me  last  night,  and  I  didn't 
notice  anything  bearish  about  him." 

"Oh,  I  know  that  he  calls  on  you  yet,"  said  Alice, 
shrewdly.  "  But  you  can't  blind  me  that  way.  Neither 
can  he.  I  should  like  to  ask  you  just  one  question,  if 
I  dared.  Will  you  promise  to  answer  it?" 

"I  promise  nothing." 

"Morris  was  over  to  see  me  a  night  or  two  ago.  We 
had  quite  a  confidential  little  chat." 

230 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"What  did  you  do  with  Mr.  Bowman?"  asked  Jose- 
phine, waggishly. 

"  He  told  me  a  thing  or  two." 

"Mr.  Bowman?" 

"No,  Morris." 

"Well,  what  was  it?  I  know  you  are  dying  to  have 
me  ask."  But  she  looked  provokingly  incurious. 

"I  sha'n't  tell  you.  Dear,  it  isn't  right  for  an  old 
married  woman  like  me  to  be  prying  into  the  secrets  of 
you  young  gazelles.  But  I  know  something  is  wrong 
between  you  and  Morris,  and  if  one  or  the  other  of  you 
doesn't  right  it  soon,  I  shall  take  a  hand  in  the  game 
myself." 

Josephine  had  confided  her  financial  troubles  to  Mrs. 
Bowman  long  before,  and  had  discussed  them  with  her 
many  times  since.  After  some  further  talk  about  other 
matters,  the  elder  woman  asked  Josephine  if  she  were 
going  to  be  able  to  make  up  her  interest  without  trouble. 
Just  now  the  question  grated  on  Josephine's  nerves — 
not  through  any  fault  of  Alice's,  but  because  the  in- 
terest was  getting  to  be  a  sore  subject. 

"I  think  so,"  she  answered.  "That  is,  if  our  pupils 
don't  desert  us  in  a  body.  We  have  lost  three  this 
week." 

"  They  are  always  coming  and  going,  dear.  You  may 
get  three  next  week.  They  left  through  no  fault  of 
yours." 

"I  don't  know,"  observed  Josephine,  moodily. 

"Yes,  you  do  know,"  corrected  Alice,  vigorously. 
"  Bertha  stopped  only  because  she  was  sick.  She  really 
should  have  stopped  before." 

"  I  know  that,"  admitted  Josephine.  "What  ails  that 
poor  girl,  anyhow?" 

The  question  was  perfectly  sincere,  for  she  was  in  a 
fog  of  doubt  yet  as  to  Bertha's  real  malady.  Yet  she 
felt  herself  blushing.  Fortunately,  Alice  did  not  see. 

231 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"  I  don't  know.  She  has  always  been  delicate.  She 
had  a  breakdown  like  this  two  or  three  years  ago." 

The  words  fell  like  a  benediction  on  Josephine's  ears. 
If  it  were  an  old  trouble,  she  certainly  could  not  be  re- 
sponsible. 

"Some  one  told  me  it  was  consumption,"  said  she, 
almost  gayly,  in  her  relief. 

Alice  shook  her  head  scoutingly. 

"You  can  hear  anything." 

During  this  conversation,  Bowman  sat  in  his  study 
above,  tilted  back  in  his  swivel-chair,  with  his  long, 
bony  fingers  locked  together  except  when  he  was  run- 
ning them  through  his  straight,  black,  Indian  hair.  His 
eyes  were  fastened  on  a  little  maple  just  beneath  his 
window.  He  might  have  been  wrestling  with  a  par- 
ticularly tough  theme,  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was 
not.  He  chanced,  queerly  enough,  to  be  thinking  about 
the  very  subject  under  discussion  down-stairs. 

Mrs.  Bowman  came  up  to  the  study  immediately 
after  Josephine's  departure,  and  sank  down  sidewise  on 
a  chair,  with  her  arm  over  the  back.  It  was  a  sign  that 
her  stay  would  be  brief. 

"Arthur,  if  the  Priestley  girls  shouldn't  be  able  to 
raise  the  interest  on  their  mortgage,  there  wouldn't  be 
the  least  bit  of  trouble  about  it,  would  there — so  long  as 
Morris  is  handling  the  matter  for  them?" 

Mr.  Bowman  did  not  answer  at  once,  or  give  sign  of 
having  heard.  His  wife  knew  him,  and  waited. 

"Can't  they  raise  it?"  he  asked,  finally. 

"Josephine  says  yes,  but  she  is  proud,  and  I  can 
see  that  she  is  troubled.  They  have  worked  so  hard, 
too,"  she  added,  with  a  little  sympathetic  tremor  in 
her  voice. 

"If  they  can't  raise  the  interest,  Morris  can  add  it  to 
the  principal." 

232 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"But  then  they  would  have  a  higher  interest  to  pay 
next  year,"  said  Alice,  dubiously. 

"  Undoubtedly,"  observed  Bowman,  coolly.  "  Do  you 
see  any  other  way  out  of  it?  Even  Morris  Davenport 
can't  make  two  and  two  equal  five." 

"I  think  it  a  shame  for  a  man  with  as  much  money 
as  Bradley  Hayford  has  to  insist  on  his  interest  the  day 
it  is  due  from  two  poor  girls  who  are  making  their  own 
living." 

"  He  didn't  insist  on  last  year's  interest  the  day  it  was 
due,"  said  Bowman. 

"It  wouldn't  hurt  him  to  let  another  year  go  by." 

"  No,  it  wouldn't.  But  it  would  hurt  the  girls.  The 
longer  they  put  off  the  reckoning,  the  heavier  it  will  be. 
Besides,  they  wouldn't  accept  a  favor  of  that  kind  from 
Hayford.  They  wouldn't  even  accept  it  from  Daven- 
port." 

Mrs.  Bowman  said  nothing.  It  was  her  opinion  that 
there  was  a  great  deal  of  selfishness  and  injustice  in  the 
business  world,  and  it  bothered  her  that  her  husband 
should,  apparently,  so  often  champion  the  powerful 
against  the  weak.  Yet  he  was  always  ready  to  justify 
his  position  by  arguments  which  she  could  not  refute. 
This,  too,  she  thought  was  a  little  unkind. 

"Wait  a  moment,  Alice,"  said  Bowman,  as  she  rose. 
She  sank  back,  still  in  her  transient,  sidewise  position. 

"I  called  at  Davenport's  office  this  afternoon,  and 
found  that  Bertha  was  at  home,  sick.  I  stopped  to  see 
her,  and  found  her  in  a  high-strung,  nervous  condition. 
She  talked  very  freely  to  me,  and  told  me,  among  other 
things,  that  she  hardly  expected  to  get  well.  That, 
of  course,  was  mere  morbidness,  and  I  did  what  I  could 
to  dispel  it.  One  confidence  led  to  another,  and  finally 
she  told  me,  quite  calmly,  that  her  sickness  was  not  of 
the  body;  that  others  than  herself  were  responsible  for 
it,  and  that  some  day  I  should  know  more  about  it." 

233 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

Alice  listened  to  the  end  without  the  movement  of  an 
eyelash,  then  settled  into  her  chair  with  an  air  of  per- 
manency. 

"What  on  earth  did  she  mean?" 

"Couldn't  you  guess?"  asked  Bowman,  inscrutably. 

Alice  hesitated.  Her  quick  mind  had  instantly  leaped 
to  a  conclusion,  but  she  was  loath  to  speak  it. 

"Arthur,  you  don't  mean  Morris  Davenport?" 

"It  is  quite  evident  that  you  do,"  he  answered,  with 
his  dark,  half-cynical  smile 

"No,  but  naturally  he  came  into  my  mind  first  in 
connection  with  Bertha." 

"Very  naturally,"  said  he,  provokingly.  "Also  into 
mine.  Have  you  heard  anything?" 

"N-o-o.     Nothing  worth  mentioning." 

"  Suppose  you  do  mention  it,  anyhow,"  said  he,  coolly. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  ought  to  or  not,"  said  she, 
doubtfully.  "It  is  only  this:  Just  before  the  fair,  Jo- 
sephine didn't  want  to  take  that  Ceres  part  because 
she  felt  she  might  be  coming  between  Morris  and  Bertha. 
I  told  her  it  was  all  nonsense." 

"Are  you  sure  it  was  nonsense?"  asked  the  minister, 
measuring  one  long  finger  against  another  with  great 
care. 

"Arthur  Bowman!"  exclaimed  his  wife,  indignantly. 
"You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  it  was." 

"No,  Alice,  I  don't.  I  might  have  thought  so  then, 
just  as  you  did.  But  I  can't  think  so  now." 

"You  don't  believe  that  Morris  would  be  guilty  of 
anything  dishonorable — that  he  would  trifle  with  Ber- 
tha's affections?"  she  asked,  still  flushed. 

"Certainly  I  don't.  But  he  might  have  found  that 
he  had  made  a  mistake."  He  paused  at  the  fire  in  his 
wife's  blue  eyes.  "Or  he  might  have  been  merely 
thoughtless.  Morris  is  not  a  man  of  exceptionally  fine 
sensibilities,  to  tell  the  truth.  Just  wait — I  am  not 

234 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

maligning  him.  Nor  is  he  a  man  of  keen  perceptions, 
outside  of  business  matters.  He  is  a  good  deal  quicker 
to  strike  than  he  is  to  see,  and  that  accounts  for  his 
success.  In  other  words,  he  is  just  the  man  to  wreck  a 
woman's  happiness  through  sheer  blundering." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Alice,  flatly.  "Morris  can 
be  as  tender  as  any  man  I  know.  And  as  for  thought- 
fulness,  Arthur,"  she  added,  with  wifely  candor,  "I 
think  you  could  go  to  school  to  him." 

"He  would  see  a  handkerchief  on  the  floor  twice  as 
quickly  as  I,  and  restore  it  to  a  lady  while  I  was  de- 
bating the  best  manner  in  which  to  do  it  —  if  that  is 
what  you  mean  by  thoughtfulness.  I  was  speaking  of 
something  deeper.  But,  without  going  further  into  his 
shortcomings  or  otherwise,  there  is  certainly  something 
wrong.  And  I  don't  see  where  I  can  make  a  move  to 
mend  it." 

"Keep  out  of  it,  Arthur,"  said  Alice,  with  the  in- 
stinctive wisdom  of  her  sex.  "Nine  times  out  of  ten 
interference  in  a  matter  of  this  kind  does  more  harm 
than  good." 

He  did  not  answer,  but  that  was  his  way.  Mrs.  Bow- 
man, after  some  further  remarks,  left  the  study.  But 
her  step  was  not  as  springy  as  when  she  had  entered. 


XXIX 

DAVENPORT,  true  to  his  promise,  allowed  a  full 
week  to  elapse  between  visits  to  Josephine.  The 
fourth  visit,  however,  was  one  day  short  of  a  week  from 
the  third,  owing  to  Davenport's  leaving  for  the  city  the 
next  morning.  The  fifth  visit  was  two  days  short  of  a 
week  from  this,  and  the  interval  between  was  broken  by 
a  buggy -ride.  After  this  the  week  limit  was  disregarded 
entirely,  and  his  calls  became  as  frequent  as  before. 

Josephine  made  no  demur,  and  Davenport  himself  was 
hardly  conscious  of  breaking  an  agreement.  It  seemed 
to  have  broken  itself.  One  subject,  however,  was  barred 
from  their  talk.  This  was  their  love.  But  one  evening 
Davenport  suddenly  bent  over  Josephine  in  his  old,  fa- 
miliar manner  and  said,  softly,  "Don't  you  see,  Jose- 
phine, how  necessary  we  are  to  each  other's  happiness?" 

"You  promised  not  to  speak  of  that  again,"  said  she. 

"So  I  did.     I  will  keep  my  promise,  too." 

Perhaps  he  intended  to;  perhaps  he  did  not,  thinking 
that  her  woman's  No  meant  Yes.  Anyhow,  with  male 
daring,  he  soon  ventured  on  the  forbidden  ground  again. 
Again  she  warned  him  off;  again  he  retired.  Thus  they 
drifted,  he  trespassing  further  each  time  before  her  warn- 
ing sounded,  and  leaving  more  slowly  after  it  sounded. 
The  eye  of  prescience  was  not  required  to  foresee  the 
time  when  her  warnings  would  cease  altogether,  or  at 
least  when  he  would  cease  to  heed  them. 

Yet  neither  was  consciously  playing  with  his  or  her 
word,  or  consciously  proving  false  to  self.  The  weeks 

236 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

since  Davenport's  proposal  had  wrought  a  great  change 
in  their  relations,  so  it  seemed  to  them.  The  chasm  be- 
tween them,  once  yawning  impassable,  had  apparently 
closed,  as  if  by  magic.  Bertha  was  much  better.  No 
more  disquieting  gossip  reached  Josephine's  ears;  and 
though  she  had  not  withdrawn  her  mandate  against 
Davenport's  mentioning  his  love,  yet  she  could  con- 
scientiously let  her  heart  leap  in  secret  when  he  did  re- 
belliously  mention  it. 

Yet  in  this  very  dawn  of  hope,  a  raven — dark,  ill- 
omened  bird  of  prophecy — was  stretching  its  neck  for 
a  dismal,  warning  croak.  The  Reverend  Arthur  Bow- 
man was  by  nature  and  training  a  cautious  man.  He 
thought  not  only  twice,  but  thrice,  before  he  spoke.  For 
six  years  he  had  trod  the  difficult  path  of  ministerial 
life  in  Tellfair  with  scarcely  a  slip.  He  had  manoeuvred 
on  the  exposed  neutral  ground  between  the  old,  con- 
servative element  in  his  church  and  the  young,  radical 
element,  and  had  scarcely  been  touched  by  a  shot  from 
either  side. 

At  the  same  time,  Arthur  Bowman  was  no  mere  trim- 
mer. He  was  a  brave,  conscientious  man,  in  spite  of 
some  people  who  sneered  at  his  tact  and  called  it  by 
another  name.  Therefore,  when  he  finally  reached  the 
conclusion  that  Josephine  Priestley  was  unwittingly 
doing  harm  by  receiving  Morris  Davenport's  attentions, 
he  resolved  to  tell  her  so. 

It  would  be  difficult,  as  well  as  superfluous,  to  trace  his 
path  to  this  resolution.  Even  to  intimate  that  he  and 
Davenport  were  of  opposite  and  warring  temperaments 
perhaps  does  the  minister  an  injustice.  Yet  it  is  doubt- 
less true  that  Davenport's  full-blooded,  vigorous  consti- 
tution, his  unbroken  success,  and  his  tireless  pursuit  of 
any  object  of  desire  sharpened  the  cold-blooded,  easy- 
going scholar's  eye  as  to  his  duty  in  this  particular  in- 
stance. He  did  not  tell  his  wife,  however,  of  his  in- 

237 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

tentions.  He  did  not  believe  her  capable  of  laying 
aside  her  friendship  for  Josephine  and  Davenport,  and 
sitting  in  .unbiased  judgment. 

He  communicated  his  warning  to  Josephine  one  Sun- 
day morning  after  church,  in  a  little  room  to  which  he 
had  led  her  aside.  No  one  could  have  clothed  his  mean- 
ing in  more  delicate  or  cautious  language.  At  the  same 
time,  no  one  could  have  made  it  plainer.  His  words 
struck  Josephine  with  the  unexpectedness  of  a  blow 
from  a  friendly  hand.  So  stunned  was  she,  in  fact,  that 
Bowman  took  her  silence  for  assent,  and  turned  away 
to  answer  some  call. 

She  knew  that  she  had  unwittingly  deceived  him.  She 
knew  that  he  bore  away  the  impression  that  there  was 
nothing  between  her  and  Davenport,  and  that  she  would 
at  once  put  his  good  advice  into  effect.  But  nothing 
was  further  from  her  mind  at  the  moment  than  this. 
Smarting  under  the  injustice  she  had  done  Davenport 
by  not  speaking  out,  her  love  suddenly  leaped  to  arms, 
and  she  hurried  out  into  the  vestibule  to  tell  Bowman 
that  he  was  all  wrong;  that  Davenport  was  in  no  way 
bound  to  Bertha  Congreve;  that  she  had  his  own  word 
for  it,  and  that  she —  She  would  do  what? — she  who 
herself  had  bound  Davenport  not  to  mention  his  love 
again  ? 

She  halted  to  collect  her  thoughts.  The  precious 
seconds  thus  lost  were  enough  to  allow  Bowman  to  re- 
join his  wife  and  pass  out  of  the  door.  The  golden  op- 
portunity was  gone. 

If  Davenport  had  called  on  Josephine  that  afternoon 
or  evening,  the  course  of  subsequent  events  would  have 
been  altered,  for  she  was  in  a  tender  mood,  and  eager  to 
resent  in  the  most  emphatic  and  irrevocable  manner 
the  unjust  insinuations  of  her  pastor.  But  Davenport, 
having  seen  her  on  Saturday  evening,  had  gone  out  to 
his  parents'  to  spend  Sunday.  By  Monday  morning  all 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

the  old  torturous  doubts  had  returned  to  Josephine,  and 
she  recalled  her  and  Davenport's  intimacy  of  the  past 
few  weeks  with  shame.  Ah,  those  broken  vows!  What 
must  he,  in  his  heart,  think  of  her  weakness?  Tears  of 
remorse  filled  her  eyes,  and  she  bitterly  resolved  that, 
cost  what  it  might,  she  would,  from  that  hour,  walk  a 
path  which  none  could  call  devious.  It  would  all  have 
to  be  gone  over  again  with  Davenport,  for  he  had  slip- 
ped entirely  out  of  the  niche  she  had  placed  him  in  for 
safety ;  and  she  virtuously  ached  for  the  moment  to  come 
when  she  could  show  him  that  she  was  not  weak.  Ached, 
yet  sorrowed. 

She  thought  he  might  come  that  night.  She  hoped 
he  would.  But  when  he  suddenly  drove  up  in  the  after- 
noon her  heart  leaped.  She  was  not  yet  braced  for  the 
ordeal.  He  tied  his  colt  in  a  hurry — he  seemed  always 
in  a  hurry,  and  somehow  she  loved  him  for  it — walked 
briskly  in,  sprang  lightly  up  the  steps,  and  gave  the  bell 
a  vigorous  ring. 

"I  can't  stop,  not  even  for. half  a  minute,"  said  he, 
breezily.  "I  have  a  telegram  calling  me  to  Chicago, 
and  my  train  leaves  in  just  eleven  minutes.  I  shall 
probably  be  gone  two  or  three  days,  and  I — what  do  you 
suppose  I  came  for?  I  came  to  say  good-bye!"  He 
smiled,  but  there  was  a  look  in  his  eye  that  made  her 
heart  quicken.  "I  couldn't  go  without  saying  good- 
bye— now."  He  held  out  his  hand.  "Good-bye.  Be 
good.  I  shall  see  you  either  Wednesday  or  Thursday 
night." 

He  took  her  hand,  pressed  it  for  an  instant,  and  then 
was  gone.  She  leaned  weakly  against  the  jamb  until 
his  glittering  wheels  had  vanished  down  the  street.  One 
more  link  forged  in  the  chain  she  had  to  break! 

Victoria,  returning  from  the  afternoon  mail,  brought 
the  news  that  Bertha,  by  the  doctor's  orders,  was  to  take 
a  week's  vacation,  to  be  spent  at  home  in  rest. 

239 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"I  thought  she  was  so  much  better,"  said  Josephine, 
with  a  pang. 

"I  guess  everybody  thought  so,"  answered  Victoria, 
and  went  through  to  the  kitchen. 

A  call  on  a  prospective  pupil  that  afternoon  took  Jo- 
sephine past  the  Congreve  home,  and,  acting  upon 
an  impulse,  she  suddenly  turned  in  and  rang  the  bell. 
Bertha  had  spent  a  bad  night,  Mrs.  Congreve  said,  in 
answer  to  an  inquiry,  and  was  asleep  just  then.  It  was 
not  to  be  expected  that  a  sick  person  should  be  awak- 
ened for  a  caller,  yet  there  was  something  vaguely  hostile 
in  Volley's  tone  and  manner.  It  not  only  hurt  Jose- 
phine, but  irritated  her  as  well,  for  she  felt  that  the 
suffering  in  this  unfortunate  affair  was  not  all  on  one 
side. 

"The  rest  will  undoubtedly  do  her  a  great  deal  of 
good,"  said  she,  as  graciously  as  she  could. 

"We  hope  so,"  answered  Volley,  calmly. 

"I  understand  that  she  had  a  breakdown  similar  to 
this  two  or  three  years  ago." 

Volley  lifted  her  head  instantly. 

"Who  told  you  that?"  she  asked,  bluntly. 

"Mrs.  Bowman,  I  think." 

"It  was  nothing  like  this.  She  was  threatened  with 
typhoid  fever  then.  I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter 
with  her  now.  I  think  perhaps  she  has  worried  over  her 
work.  Her  trouble  seems  to  be  more  mental  than 
physical.  We  have  wanted  to  take  her  out  of  the  office 
for  some  time,  but  she  is  ambitious.  I  don't  think  Mr. 
Davenport  quite  realizes  the  difference  between  him  and 
a  frail  girl.  He  is  made  of  iron  himself,  and  he  sets  a 
pace  in  the  office -work  which  few  men  could  follow, 
much  less  a  woman.  I  have  often  told  him  that,  if  he 
had  a  wife,  he  would  know  more  about  the  physical 
limitations  of  a  woman." 

"Still,  he  is  very  good  about  letting  her  off,"  ob- 
240 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

served  Josephine,  mildly.  "I  know  he  is  with  her 
lessons." 

"Oh,  there  is  nothing  small  about  him,"  answered 
Volley,  as  if  determined  that  no  one  should  twist  her 
words  out  of  shape.  "He  is  simply  thoughtless.  One 
afternoon,  for  instance,  he  came  down  here  when  Bert 
hadn't  gone  back  after  dinner,  to  ask  her  to  finish  writ- 
ing some  important  letters  he  had  dictated.  The  poor 
child  could  hardly  hold  her  head  up,  but  she  went  back." 

Josephine  was  silent.  She  simply  did  not  believe  the 
last,  perhaps  not  the  first,  and  after  a  little  further  talk 
she  left. 

16 


XXX 

ON  Wednesday  evening  the  band  gave  its  weekly 
concert  in  Court-house  Square,  the  last  one  of 
the  season.  The  Tellfair  City  Brass  Band  was  generally 
believed  by  citizens  of  Tellfair  to  be  the  best  musical  or- 
ganization of  its  size  and  kind  in  northern  Illinois.  It 
was  in  the  habit  of  bringing  home  prizes  from  county 
fairs,  farmers'  institutes,  firemen's  tournaments,  and 
woodsmen's  picnics — prizes  were  lavishly  awarded  at 
these  gatherings,  to  insure  attendance  the  next  year — 
and  its  hall  over  Gilroy's  Opera-house  was  liberally 
hung  with  these  trophies. 

Both  the  Visitor  and  the  Citizen  always  referred  to 
Charlie  McDonald  as  "our  talented  leader" — it  was  su- 
perfluous to  say  of  what — and  strove  to  outdo  each  other 
in  laudatory  comments  on  the  band's  excellence.  As 
few  of  their  readers  had  ever  sat  in  the  editorial  chair,  or 
suspected  how  much  of  an  editor's  time  on  a  country 
paper  is  spent  in  scheming  for  advertising,  subscriptions, 
and  job  work,  these  complimentary  remarks  were  gener- 
ally swallowed  without  salt.  On  band-concert  nights, 
it  is  safe  to  say  that  two-thirds  of  Tellfair's  population 
could  be  found  in  Court-house  Square.  The  people  did 
not,  it  is  true,  turn  out  so  numerously  to  the  winter  con- 
certs in  the  opera-house — admission,  twenty-five  cents — 
but  one  can't  go  to  everything. 

On  this  particular  evening  the  ladies  of  the  Presby- 
terian Church  were  serving  ice-cream  and  cake — the 
churches  served  turn  about — and  Josephine  had  charge 

242 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

of  one  of  the  tables.  A  few  Japanese  lanterns  were 
strung  up  for  ornament,  but  light  was  furnished  by  a 
number  of  flaring  gasolene  torches  nailed  to  trees.  The 
band-stand  itself,  however,  was  lighted  by  incandescents 
from  the  new  electric  plant ;  and  though  they  had  a  habit 
of  going  out  most  inopportunely,  owing  to  defective 
wiring  among  the  trees  of  the  square,  no  one  would  have 
willingly  gone  back  to  the  old  kerosene-lamps  and  tin 
sconces. 

It  was  a  mixed  company  which  sat  at  Josephine's 
table,  about  half-past  nine.  There  were  Lucius  Shaw, 
president  of  the  First  National  Bank,  and  his  wife;  the 
Reverend  Bowman — without  his  wife,  who  was  busy  else- 
where; Lowdermilk  Tidd  and  his  wife,  though  the  frail 
little  woman  was  scarcely  visible  in  the  shadow  of  his 
huge  bulk;  old  Barry  Morse,  the  village  skinflint,  wife- 
less and  childless  and  wellnigh  friendless;  Marmaduke 
Elaine,  proprietor  of  the  Basley  House,  and  "distantly 
related  to  James  G.,"  as  he  would  have  informed  you 
himself;  and  Schuyler  Harrison,  Register  of  Deeds,  with 
his  wife. 

The  fair  waitresses  wore  an  innovation  that  evening  in 
the  way  of  aprons — a  dainty  little  affair  scarcely  larger 
than  a  man's  handkerchief,  which  Mrs.  Bowman  had  first 
seen  in  a  woman's  restaurant  in  Chicago.  Lowder- 
milk Tidd  remarked  to  old  Barry,  loud  enough  for  the 
ladies  to  overhear,  that  he  fancied  those  aprons  were 
about  the  size  and  pattern  worn  by  Mother  Eve.  Old 
Barry  snickered — Tidd  was  a  man  of  prominence — and 
some  of  the  ladies  smiled,  although  they  also  blushed. 
Lowdermilk's  face  grew  redder  than  ever  as  he  silently 
shook  over  his  joke,  his  thick  neck  swelled,  and  his 
cheeks  bulged  like  toy  balloons.  Little  Mrs.  Tidd,  how- 
ever, looked  pained,  and  glanced  solicitously  at  Jose- 
phine, the  only  unmarried  woman  at  the  table.  Jose- 
phine, though,  seemed  not  to  have  heard,  for  she  was 

343 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

calmly  passing  the  cake  to  Mr.  Elaine  for  the  third 
time. 

Lucius  Shaw  did  not  like  Lowdermilk  Tidd,  so  he  did 
not  laugh  either.  Instead,  he  drew  a  cigar  from  his 
pocket,  without  offering  one  to  the  other  gentlemen  or 
apologizing  to  the  ladies,  lighted  it,  and  drew  a  com- 
placent puff  or  two.  He  had  a  habit,  when  about  to 
deliver  himself  of  something  weighty,  of  thoughtfully 
closing  his  eyes,  or  nearly  so.  It  was  an  impressive 
attitude,  too,  with  most  people.  This  he  now  struck. 

"Gentlemen,  this  is  a  great  country,"  he  began,  in  a 
tone  of  lofty  philosophy.  "I  have  been  sitting  here, 
taking  in  the  scene  before  me.  There  is  a  sight  not  to 
be  seen  in  any  other  country  on  God's  footstool.  Here 
we  are,  a  little  community  of  two  thousand  souls,  set 
down  on  the  prairie  here  like  a  raisin  on  a  plum-pudding. 
In  any  other  age  or  any  other  country,  we  would  be 
steeped  in  provincialism,  and  the  happenings  of  the  great 
outside  world  would  be  merely  belated  echoes  in  our 
ears.  Yet  here  we  sit  listening  to  a  first-class  band  dis- 
coursing first-class  music — not  classical,  perhaps" — the 
overture  to  "William  Tell"  had  just  closed — "but  good, 
respectable  music.  Instead  of  candles  or  kerosene-lamps, 
the  stand  is  lit  with  electric  lights.  If  they  should  go 
out,  you  could  step  into  the  court-house,  where  you 
would  find  a  telephone,  another  great  invention,  and  in 
less  than  a  minute  Horace  Mann  would  be  on  the  way  to 
repair  them." 

"Not  unless  he  wanted  to  stop  on  his  way  up  for  a 
drink,"  growled  Marmaduke  Elaine.  "It  took  me  an 
hour  and  a  half  to  get  him  the  other  night — by  tele- 
phone, too." 

"  If  that  stand  should  catch  fire,"  continued  Mr.  Shaw, 
ignoring  the  interruption,  "you  could  turn  on  a  stream 
from  that  hydrant.  A  few  years  ago  we  would  have 
had  to  carry  the  water  in  buckets.  Everybody  is 

244 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

dressed  well,  and  everybody  has  money  to  spend,  and 
is  having  a  good  time.  Yet  we  are  as  orderly  as  a  Sun- 
day-school, and  there  isn't  an  officer  of  the  law  in  sight 
— no  uniformed  minions  or  disguised  spies  of  the  State. 
We  are  a  self -governed,  self-supporting  community,  as 
independent  socially,  politically,  religiously  —  and  in- 
dustrially, you  might  almost  say — as  if  we  lived  on  an 
island  of  the  sea.  Yet  if  we  should  have  trouble  here — 
say  a  riot  which  we  couldn't  quell  —  the  governor  of 
this  State  would  have  troops  on  the  way  here  within  an 
hour.  If  these  should  prove  inadequate,  the  President 
of  the  United  States  could  and  would  have  a  regiment 
or  a  brigade  flying  hither  at  the  rate  of  a  mile  a  minute, 
within  another  hour.  If  we  should  be  wiped  out  by  fire 
to-night,  every  city,  town,  and  village  from  Maine  to 
California  would  know  it  by  to-morrow's  breakfast,  and 
before  noon  they  would  have  provided  us  with  dinner. 
This  is  a  great  country." 

He  tilted  his  silk  hat  back,  and  balanced  his  smoking 
cigar  between  white  fingers  set  with  a  diamond,  as  if 
complacently  conscious  that  he  himself  was  no  unim- 
portant member  of  this  model,  prosperous,  and  un- 
equalled country. 

"Ask  him  where  this  brick  ice-cream  came  from,  if 
he  thinks  we  are  independent,"  said  Bowman,  in  an  un- 
dertone to  Josephine,  with  his  dark,  sarcastic  smile. 

"Not  for  a  share  of  his  bank  stock,"  answered  Jose- 
phine. "  He  is  composing  a  poem,  in  his  own  way,  and 
I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  a  bad  way.  He  loves  this  town, 
and  that  is  what  he  is  trying  to  say." 

"  He  ought  to  love  it.  He  has  made  a  fortune  out  of 
it,"  retorted  the  minister,  feeling  her  pin-prick  of  re- 
buke. 

His  words,  in  turn,  nettled  Josephine.  In  the  first 
place,  she  did  not  like  his  speaking  to  her  in  an  under- 
tone; he  had  done  that  more  than  once  of  late.  In  the 

245 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

second  place,  she  did  not  like  the  spirit  of  his  remarks, 
or  think  them  becoming  to  his  office.  She  therefore 
found  it  convenient  to  move  to  another  part  of  the 
table. 

"We'd  be  better  off  if  we  had  more  officers  of  the 
law,"  said  old  Barry  Morse,  in  a  high,  querulous  key. 
"Pete  Blanchard  makes  about  as  good  a  constable  as 
a  hitchin'-post  would.  Some  boys  stoned  my  chickens 
yesterday  and  broke  a  pullet's  leg." 

Marmaduke  Elaine  swallowed  the  last  of  his  cake,  and 
looked  up  with  interest. 

"Barry,"  said  he,  in  his  stentorian  voice,  "if  you've 
got  any  pullets  of  a  fryin'  size,  bring  'em  down  to  the 
hotel,  broken  legs  and  all,  and  I'll  give  you  twenty- 
five  cents  apiece  for  them  straight  through,  big  and 
little.  Hear?" 

The  old  miser  scanned  the  company  one  by  one,  with 
a  pained,  drawn  expression  on  his  face. 

"There  might  be  some,"  he  admitted,  cautiously. 
''They're  mighty  skeerce  now,  though." 

"You  look  through  your  coops  again,"  returned  Mar- 
maduke, placidly.  "Maybe  you  won't  find  them  so 
scarce.  Farmers  don't  report  'em  scarce.  But  I  like 
town -raised  chickens  best  when  I  can  get  them,"  with  a 
wink  at  Tidd.  "So  you  bring  some  down  to-morrow. 
Hear?  But  be  sure  they're  fryin'  size,"  he  added, 
warningly.  "Don't  bring  any  canary-birds  down,  like 
that  neighbor  of  yours  did." 

"I'm  a  neighbor  of  his,  Duke,"  said  Schuyler  Harrison, 
with  the  bland  smile  of  a  man  who  has  fed  long  at  the 
public  crib  and  has  no  present  intentions  of  changing 
his  diet.  "I  wish  you  would  discriminate." 

"I  mean  that  lame  boy  on  Barry's  west — that  Bill 
Wicherell.  Blamed  if  he  didn't  bring  me  some  chickens 
the  other  day  that  a  travelling  man  from  the  East  took 
for  rice-birds." 

246 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

Old  Barry  had  listened  closely  since  mention  of  Billy 
Wicherell,  and  he  now  suddenly  bent  forward. 

"Was  one  of  them  chickens  that  Billy  brought  you  a 
barred  Plymouth  Rock,  Mr.  Elaine?" 

The  landlord's  face,  glistening  with  fatness,  grew  pre- 
ternaturally  grave. 

"Now  that  you  mention  it,  blamed  if  I  don't  believe 
it  was,  Barry  —  kind  of  a  darkish  -  lightish  Plymouth 
Rock?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  assented  the  old  man,  eagerly.  "With 
the  third  toe  on  the  left  foot  gone." 

"Hanged  if  my  cook  didn't  mention  that  very  toe. 
Said  she  didn't  know  whether  it  would  affect  the  meat 
or  not.  But  how  comes  it  you  know  so  much  about 
Billy  Wicherell's  chickens,  Barry?" 

"Billy  Wicherell's!"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  shrilly, 
leaping  to  his  feet.  "That  was  my  chicken.  I  raised 
it  myself,  and  it  lost  that  toe  in  a  steel  trap.  I'd  swear 
to  it  in  any  court  of  law  in  the  land,  and  I've  missed  it 
for  a  week.  That  imp  stole  that  chicken,  and  I'll  have 
the  law  on  him  before  he  sleeps." 

He  rushed  off  for  the  constable,  leaving  Lowdermilk 
Tidd  and  Elaine  quaking  like  bogs.  The  ladies,  though, 
thought  it  a  shame;  and  Bowman,  secretly  indignant  at 
the  callous  joke,  quietly  left  to  overtake  the  old  man 
and  set  him  right. 

"  That  sample  of  cream  was  all  right,  Miss  Josephine," 
said  Mr.  Tidd,  facetiously,  "and  if  you  are  now  ready 
I  will  give  you  my  order  for  a  plate  of  it." 

The  second  plate,  containing  a  double  portion,  was 
served  him,  and  rapidly  disappeared  before  his  vora- 
cious onslaught.  When  it  was  gone  and  the  plate 
scraped,  he  gently  laid  his  great  arms  on  the  table, 
crossed  his  pudgy  fingers,  breathed  audibly,  and  looked 
as  contented  and  stupid  as  a  stalled  ox.  A  moment 
later,  though,  he  jammed  his  fat  hand  into  an  upper 

247 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

vest-pocket,  and  after  a  struggle  drew  out  a  cigar.  A  sec- 
ond struggle  brought  out  one  for  Mr.  Harrison,  and  a 
third  one  for  the  landlord.  Then  he  turned  in  his  chair 
as  cautiously  as  an  elephant  crosses  an  untried  bridge, 
until  he  was  braced  on  one  side  by  the  chair-back  and 
on  the  other  by  the  table,  thus  totally  eclipsing  his  wife 
with  his  broad  back. 

"Speaking  of  improvements,  Shaw,"  said  he,  between 
his  labored  breaths,  "it's  an  impressive  fact  to  me  that 
if  a  crowned  head  of  Europe  should  die  to-night,  we 
people  right  here  in  Tellfair  would  know  it  before  it 
happened." 

"We'd  know  it  six  hours  before,  paw!"  eagerly  spoke 
up  a  boy  of  ten  or  twelve,  standing  near  with  a  plate 
of  cream  in  his  hand. 

Tidd  gave  him  a  glance  which  expressed  proprietor- 
ship and  slight  disapprobation  of  his  forwardness,  but 
said  nothing.  Harrison  asked,  however,  "How  is  that, 
Wilbur?" 

"Because  the  electricity  travels  faster  than  the  sun," 
answered  the  boy,  quickly. 

"Then  we  shouldn't  hear  of  the  death  before  it  ac- 
tually happened,  should  we?" 

"No,  sir.     Just  apparently." 

The  eyes  of  the  little  mother,  who  doubtless  did  not 
understand  the  puzzling  thing  herself,  beamed  with  a 
humble,  repressed  pride  which  for  some  reason  made 
Josephine's  heart  ache.  She  had  once  thought  Lowder- 
milk  Tidd  jolly  and  funny,  but  She  turned  away  now 
from  his  triple  chin  and  bull  neck  with  something  like 
disgust. 


XXXI 

HERE  comes  a  little  girl  who  has  been  sick,"  ob- 
served Mr.  Shaw. 

Three  persons  approached — Bertha  Congreve,  Miss 
Gwendolen  Harvey,  one  of  Tellfair's  heavy  beauties,  and, 
between  them,  a  young  man  who  was  creating  consid- 
erable talk  in  Tellfair  at  that  moment.  He  was  from 
Rockford,  and  had  advanced  commercial  ideas.  His 
new  "department-store,"  as  he  called  it  in  the  loose 
language  of  conversation,  was  not  in  operation  yet; 
but  flaming  posters  on  every  bill-board  and  every  coun- 
try road  for  miles  around  announced  that  the  grand, 
formal  opening  would  take  place  in  two  weeks.  They 
further  stated  that  it  would  be  Mr.  Collie's  endeavor 
to  run  a  wide-awake,  fair  and  square,  up-to-date  dry- 
goods  emporium,  equal  to  anything  in  northern  Illinois 
outside  of  Chicago.  A  large  corps  of  trained  clerks  and 
a  cash-railway  system  would  give  his  patrons  the  quick- 
est and  most  efficient  service.  "Large  sales  and  small 
profits  is  my  motto."  To  all  of  which,  and  much  more, 
he  subscribed  himself,  "Yours  for  business." 

Mr.  Collie  was  about  thirty,  spare  and  undersized.  He 
wore  a  yellow  plush  vest  which  would  have  attracted 
many  an  admiring  glance  at  a  prize-fight.  Neither  his 
teeth  nor  his  linen  was  of  the  whitest,  and  he  was  slight- 
ly ill  at  ease  in  the  society  of  ladies.  Yet  there  was 
something  about  him  which  gave  his  printed  rhetoric  an 
ominous  ring  in  the  ears  of  his  prospective  competitors. 
His  little  face  was  weak,  but  on  his  proper  field — the 

249 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

floor  of  his  store — he  had  the  eye  and  mien  of  a  general. 
His  insignificant  little  body  suddenly  acquired  grace 
and  power,  and  no  one  could  watch  him  long,  as  he 
superintended  the  arrangement  of  the  stock,  without 
reaching  the  conclusion  that  James  Collie  was  a  born 
merchant.  And  a  born  anything,  whether  statesman 
or  jockey,  is  an  object  to  which  the  world  promptly 
makes  its  obeisance. 

The  trio  paused  a  few  feet  away.  After  a  murmured 
consultation,  Mr.  Collie  and  Miss  Harvey  went  off  by 
themselves.  Bertha,  who  had  apparently  promised  to 
wait  for  them,  sat  down  next  to  Mr.  Shaw. 

"  Miss  Priestley,  bring  this  little  lady  a  plate  of  cream, 
please,"  said  Shaw,  gallantly. 

"  No,  thank  you,  Mr.  Shaw.  Dr.  Burney  let  me  come 
out  to-night  on  condition  that  I  eat  absolutely  nothing, 
and  you  mustn't  tempt  me." 

"  If  you  was  my  girl,  you'd  eat  all  you  pleased,"  snort- 
ed Tidd.  "You'd  get  well,  too,  a  heap  quicker  than 
you  are  now.  Burney  belongs  to  the  starvation  school." 

"It  is  a  school  with  a  good  many  graduates,"  ob- 
served Lucius,  coolly. 

"A  glance  at  our  fat  cemeteries  would  convince  any 
one  of  that  fact,"  retorted  Lowdermilk,  scathingly. 

"It  is  stuffing  that  usually  makes  fat  things,  not 
starving,"  answered  the  banker,  "and  I  think  the  truth 
holds  good  of  the  cemeteries  you  refer  to."  He  glanced 
at  Schuyler  Harrison  for  approval  of  this  neat  shaft. 
Mr.  Harrison,  who  had  an  overdue  note  at  the  bank, 
winked  approvingly — when  Tidd  wasn't  looking. 

"How  about  bank  accounts?"  asked  Tidd,  purple 
around  the  eyes. 

Shaw's  parsimony  was  a  matter  of  public  knowledge, 
and  Tidd  felt  that  there  was  material  for  a  heavy  shot 
in  this  last  remark;  but  somehow  it  failed  to  make  a 
hit,  and  no  one  laughed. 

250 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

Cheerful  conversation,  gentlemen,  I  vum,  before  one 
of  Burney's  own  patients,"  declared  Marmaduke  Elaine. 
"How  you  feeling,  Berthy?" 

"A  little  better,  thank  you." 

"I  seen  your  mother  buying  some  malt  extract 
in  Grant's  the  other  day.  She  feeding  you  on  that 
now?" 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  like  it.     It  is  so  bitter." 

Her  angelic  mood  was  on  her  strong  to-night,  and  she 
answered  these  inquiries  in  a  plaintive,  patient  little 
invalid's  voice  that  was  decidedly  effective.  She  watch- 
ed the  scene  around  her  with  far-away,  dreamy  eyes,  as 
if  she  were  no  part  of  it.  When  the  band  played  a  ten- 
der minor  thing,  which  most  of  the  listeners  probably 
thought  entirely  unworthy  that  thunderous  aggregation 
of  brass,  the  tears  trembled  on  Bertha's  lashes. 

Josephine  saw  them,  and  it  gave  her  a  tightness  across 
the  chest.  Stooping  over,  she  asked  Bertha  to  walk 
home  with  her,  in  case  her  friends  did  not  come  back, 
and  she  and  Victoria  would  go  the  rest  of  the  way  with 
her.  The  friends  did  not  come  back — as  any  one  know- 
ing Gwendolen  Harvey's  partiality  for  having  a  young 
man  all  to  herself  might  have  predicted — and  the  two 
girls  set  out  together  after  the  last  number. 

There  was  a  chill  in  the  night  a"ir,  a  foreboding  of 
winter,  bringing  to  the  mind  pleasing  pictures  of  a 
crackling  fire,  closed  shutters,  lamp,  and  book.  A  few 
crickets  and  katydids,  their  strength  almost  gone,  fee- 
bly fiddled  the  last  measures  of  the  great  symphony  of 
summer.  The  frogs  in  Merriwether's  Pond,  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  away,  trilled  faintly  through  floating  wreaths  of 
mist.  The  night  breeze  sadly  kissed  the  hectic  cheeks  of 
the  dying  leaves  on  maple  and  elm,  and  rustled  mourn- 
fully among  the  dead  hollyhocks  in  the  garden.  The 
moon,  no  longer  decked  in  the  festal  yellow  of  harvest, 
but  wrapped  in  cold,  silver  gray,  climbed  the  eastern 

251 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

sky  behind  bars  of  ragged  cloud  and  cast  a  mystic 
spell  around  the  neighboring  chimney-tops. 

In  this  ethereal  light,  which  flooded  the  front  steps, 
Bertha  looked  more  like  a  spirit  than  a  denizen  of  earth. 
Her  light  hair  floated  around  her  face  in  a  gossamer  cloud, 
and  her  hands  were  small  and  white  beyond  belief — little 
waxen  playthings.  Josephine  wanted  to  clasp  the  frail 
form  to  her  strong  breast  and  breathe  into  it  health  and 
strength,  and  kiss  her  pretty,  weak  mouth,  and  tell  her 
that  she  had  forever  renounced  Morris  Davenport.  Yet 
she  really  had  no  idea  of  doing  any  such  extravagant 
thing,  and  their  talk  was  of  a  studiously  impersonal 
nature  as  they  waited  for  Victoria. 

In  the  midst  of  a  silence  between  them  a  glowing 
cigar  suddenly  appeared  in  the  darkness  down  by  the 
gate,  followed  by  a  snuffling  and  snorting  like  that  of 
an  asthmatic  pug-dog.  Nearly  anybody  in  Tellfair  would 
at  once  have  recognized  these  sounds  as  emanating  from 
Reverdy  Wheatlocks,  who  suffered  from  hay-fever  every 
fall.  After  these  preliminaries,  a  voice  came  up  the  walk 
which  could  have  been  heard  a  block  away. 

"Say,  is  that  you,  Miss  Priestley?" 

"Yes,"  said  Josephine.  Her  voice  sounded  strangely 
low  and  subdued  in  comparison  with  the  other's  sten- 
torian bellowing. 

"Morris  Davenport  ain't  there,  is  he?" 

"No." 

Silence  followed.  The  cigar  brightened  and  dulled, 
brightened  and  dulled.  Reverdy  was  evidently  sucking 
counsel. 

"Well,  say,  Miss  Priestley,"  he  went  on,  in  a  louder 
voice,  if  that  were  possible,  "there's  goin'  to  be  a  hoss- 
sale  over  in  the  town  of  Troy  to-morrow  mawnin'  at 
eight  o'clock,  sharp,  and  I've  an  idea  there  will  be  some 
hosses  there  that  Morris  might  want  to  git  his  hands  on. 
I'm  goin'  over  myself,  and  I'd  kind  of  like  to  have  him 

252 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

along.  Ezry  Slaymaker  wanted  me  to  keep  my  eye 
open  for  a  span  of  drivers  for  him,  and  I  thought  I  might 
strike  something  over  there  in  Troy.  Morris  would 
know  better  than  me  what  Slaymaker  would  want,  I 
expect.  He  didn't  say  nothin'  to  you  about  goin'  over 
to  the  sale,  did  he?" 

"No.  And  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  where  you  could 
find  him."  She  didn't  know  whether  Davenport  had 
returned  from  Chicago  or  not,  though  she  supposed  he 
had  not.  She  said  nothing  about  his  trip,  however, 
knowing  that  Reverdy  would  learn  all  about  it  at  the 
hotel.  Perhaps  Bertha's  presence  restrained  her.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  Josephine  did  not  want  either  Bertha  or 
Wheatlocks  to  know  just  how  familiar  she  was  with 
Davenport's  comings  and  goings. 

"Well,  I  guess  I'll  be  movin',"  observed  Reverdy. 
"  The  boys  down-town  kind  of  thought  he  might  be  here. 
He  ain't  likely  to  show  up  later,  I  suppose.  It's  'most 
ten  now.  I  guess  I'll  go  down  to  the  Basley  House  and 
lay  for  him,  though  I'd  kind  of  like  to  git  to  bed.  We'll 
have  to  make  an  early  start.  Well,  good-night.  Lovely 
evenin'." 

He  puffed  off  like  a  superannuated  Mississippi  side- 
wheeler.  But  twenty  feet  farther  on  he  made  another 
landing. 

"  If  he  should  happen  to  show  up,  Miss  Priestley,  I  wish 
you'd  just  tell  him  about  that  sale.  You  might  say 
that  I'll  be  at  the  hotel  at  half -past  six  o'clock  to- 
morrow mawnin'.  The  sale  is  at  Horner's  —  Cal  Hor- 
ner's.  Morris  knows  the  place.  First  farm  south  of 
Newt  Bentley's.  What's  that?" 

Josephine  had  not  spoken,  but  she  now  said,  "  There  is 
no  possibility  of  his  being  here  to-night,  Mr. Wheatlocks.'' 

"No'm,  I  suppose  not.  He's  a  terrible  night -owl, 
though.  I've  known  him  to  sit  in  his  office  and  write 
till  two  o'clock  in  the  mawnin'.  Well,  good-night." 

253 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

Again  he  got  laboriously  under  way,  but  at  the  very 
last  section  of  iron  fencing  his  head-light  again  swung 
into  view  and  stopped. 

"I  don't  suppose  he'd  take  anything,"  he  called,  in  a 
voice  that  must  have  vibrated  every  tympanum  in  the 
neighborhood,  "but  you  might  say  that  if  I  find  any- 
thing that  Slaymaker  wants,  I'll  give  him  a  ten-spot  and 
welcome;  yessum.  It  '11  be  wuth  that  to  me." 

He  disappeared  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees.  Jose- 
phine thought  she  heard  him  stop  once  more  in  front  of 
Channing's,  two  doors  beyond.  But,  if  so,  the  distance 
was  too  great  even  for  a  man  accustomed  to  carrying 
on  a  confidential  chat  across  a  ten-acre  field,  and  no 
further  instructions  rent  the  night  air.  What  she  did 
hear  was  an  impish,  suppressed  laugh  from  Catlin's 
front  porch,  where  Elizabeth  and  her  sweetheart  were 
presumably  tarrying,  and  of  course  had  heard  all.  Vexed 
as  Josephine  was  at  Wheatlocks,  she  could  scarcely  re- 
strain a  smile  herself.  Not  so  with  Bertha,  however. 
Her  face,  so  white  in  the  moonlight,  grew  red  at  the 
laughter  next  door. 

"  I  guess  he'll  go  without  Morris,"  she  said,  in  a  slight- 
ly tremulous  voice. 

"Why?"  asked  Josephine. 

"Because  he's  in  the  city." 

Josephine  regarded  her  companion  thoughtfully  for  a 
moment. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  Mr.  Wheatlocks  so?"  she  asked, 
curiously. 

"  Because  I  didn't  want  him  to  know  that  I  was  here." 

"Why,  pray?"  asked  Josephine,  bridling. 

"Because  I  was  ashamed,"  answered  Bertha,  abrupt- 
ly. Then,  to  Josephine's  amazement,  she  hid  her  face 
in  a  handkerchief  and  began  to  cry — softly,  noiselessly, 
pitifully. 

"Why  should  you  be  ashamed,  Bertha?"  asked  Jose- 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

phine,  gently,  but  with  an  accusing  answer  proceeding 
from  her  own  heart. 

Bertha  shook  her  head  and  would  not  answer  the 
question.  But  a  moment  later  she  wailed  under  her 
breath,  "Oh,  I  am  so  unhappy — so  unhappy!  I  wish  I 
were  dead!" 

Josephine  could  only  look.  A  great  guilt  tied  her 
tongue.  But  with  what  eloquent  eyes  she  looked — 
great,  lustrous,  melting  orbs!  Suddenly  she  slipped  the 
bond  from  her  tongue.  Leaning  forward,  with  every 
muscle  tense,  she  laid  her  hand  upon  Bertha's  shoulder. 

"Bertha,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  thrilling  with  emotion, 
"  I  want  you  to  tell  me,  woman  to  woman,  if  I  have 
contributed  to  your  unhappiness." 

Bertha  made  no  answer,  and  after  a  moment  Jose- 
phine added,  quietly,  "I  see  you  think  I  have." 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  blame  you,"  came  from  behind  the 
handkerchief. 

"  Don't  say  that.  You  can't  help  blaming  me.  Per- 
haps I  ought  to  be  blamed.  I  know  I  am  not  entirely 
innocent.  Yet  I  may  not  be  as  guilty  as  you  think;  and 
I  want  to  tell  you  that  under  the  circumstances  Mr. 
Davenport  and  I  can  never  be  more  than  friends.  He 
understands  that  as  well  as  I  do." 

She  paused,  wondering  if  she  had  lied;  wondering  if 
she  were  not  doing  wrong,  even  if  she  had  not  lied  thus 
to  raise  hopes  which  in  the  end  must  be  dashed  again. 
Bertha  did  not  answer,  but  she  was  listening;  her  sobs 
were  restrained,  and  her  whole  attitude  said,  "Go  on." 

But  Josephine  could  not  go  on.  She  already  saw  be- 
fore her  Davenport's  frowning,  dissenting  face.  Bertha 
finally  lowered  her  handkerchief,  and  sat  in  a  reverie  for 
some  time,  her  little,  baby  mouth  still  occasionally  stif- 
fening and  quivering  at  some  painful  thought. 

"  It  doesn't  make  any  difference  to  me  now,"  said  she. 
"  He  will  never  care  for  me  any  more." 

255 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Whatever  comes,  Bertha,"  said  Josephine,  after  a 
moment,  "you  must  not  give  yourself  over  to  grief. 
That  is  mere  weakness.  You  must  try  to  be  cheerful. 
You  must  not  think  yourself  the  only  girl  who  has  ever 
suffered  thus.  That  gives  you  an  exaggerated  notion  of 
your  trouble,  and  only  makes  it  worse.  I  know  that 
you  suffer,  and  must  suffer,  but  brooding  over  it  will 
only  make  you  suffer  more." 

"It  is  easy  enough  to  say  that,"  answered  Bertha, 
with  a  flash  of  resentment. 

"Yes,  and  hard  to  do.  But  that  is  no  reason  why  I 
should  not  say  it  and  you  do  it." 

Silence  followed.  The  moon  had  slipped  behind  the 
peak  of  a  maple,  throwing  the  girls  in  shadow.  A  dog 
barked  mournfully  in  the  distance;  the  clock  on  the 
Presbyterian  church  struck  the  half -hour.  Bertha 
shivered  and  drew  her  light  jacket  closer. 

"  I  ought  to  be  going,"  said  she.  "  Papa  will  be  wor- 
ried." 

"  I  can't  imagine  what  keeps  Victoria,"  said  Josephine. 
"If  Jean  is  still  up,  we  won't  wait  any  longer  for  her." 

Jean  was  up,  as  he  always  was  until  both  his  fair 
charges  were  safely  housed.  He  did  not  walk  with  the 
young  women,  but  a  little  behind  them.  On  the  way 
back,  though,  Josephine  slipped  her  hand  through  his 
arm,  and  the  bent  old  man  seemed  to  straighten  under 
her  touch  and  step  off  more  briskly.  As  they  entered 
the  gate  again,  she  saw  Victoria  waiting  on  the  steps, 
wondering  where  they  could  all  be,  and  a  little  afraid  to 
go  into  the  great,  dark  house  alone. 

Josephine  had  made  up  her  mind,  although  her  heart 
sank  at  the  prospect.  All  intercourse  between  her  and 
Davenport  must  now  absolutely  cease. 


XXXII 

DAVENPORT  returned  from  Chicago  at  half-past  six 
on  Thursday.  As  he  emerged  from  the  dining-room 
of  the  Basley  House,  after  a  late  supper,  he  lit  a  cigar, 
and  for  a  moment  leaned  against  the  counter.  There 
was  frost  in  the  air  outside — the  weather  had  suddenly 
changed — and  the  hotel  office  showed  its  first  signs  of 
the  social  activity  and  good  cheer  which  prevailed  there 
during  the  long  autumn  and  winter  evenings. 

A  wood  fire  crackled  and  snapped  in  the  grate.  Land- 
lord Elaine  was  haggling  and  blustering  with  a  belated, 
half -tipsy  farmer  over  some  Thanksgiving  turkeys. 
Henry  Drake,  in  his  army  blue,  stood  in  front  of  the 
grate,  solemnly  drunk.  Next  to  the  plate-glass  front 
sat  Isaac  Buggs  and  old  man  Button,  playing  checkers, 
as  silent  as  Indians  except  when  the  latter  fiercely  swore 
over  some  unlucky  move.  In  a  corner  three  men  were 
listlessly  playing  "cut-throat"  euchre,  pending  the  ar- 
rival of  a  fourth  to  make  up  a  good  game.  Lucius  Shaw, 
whose  family  was  out  of  town,  as  it  often  was,  sat  be- 
hind a  Chicago  afternoon  paper,  fragrant  blue  clouds 
floating  up  from  his  Havana. 

Not  far  from  him  sat  a  man  whom  Davenport  was 
surprised  to  see  there.  It  was  old  Campeau.  He  sat 
uneasily  in  his  chair,  with  an  alien  air.  His  pinched, 
withered  face  was  sterner  than  usual,  and  it  was  clear 
that  he  was  not  to  be  classed  among  the  Basley  House 
loafers. 

"  Old  boy  wants  to  see  you,  Morris,"  said  Marmaduke, 
17  257 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

in  a  tone  that  the  "old  boy"  must  certainly  have  over- 
heard. 

At  Davenport's  approach,  Campeau  instantly  arose 
and  removed  his  hat.  It  was  an  act  of  courtesy  seldom 
seen  in  Tellfair  between  men,  and  elicited  a  democratic 
sniff  of  amusement  and  contempt  from  one  of  the  eu- 
chre players. 

"Mr.  Davenport,  could  I  have  a  word  with  you  in 
private?"  asked  the  old  man,  in  his  low,  polite  voice. 
When  Davenport  had  led  him  aside  a  little,  Campeau 
continued:  "I  trust  you  will  pardon  me,  sir,  but  I  want 
to  speak  to  you  about  the  mortgage.  I  come  here  with- 
out Miss  Josephine's  knowledge,  and  I  fear  she  would  be 
very  angry  if  she  knew  it.  But  I  don't  see,  sir,  how  she 
is  going  to  pay  the  interest." 

He  paused,  with  sadness  and  appeal  in  his  eyes. 
Davenport,  who  was  then  only  waiting  for  eight  o'clock 
to  go  and  see  Josephine,  felt  a  quickening  for  the  first 
time  towards  the  faithful  old  servitor.  After  all,  Cam- 
peau was  one  of  the  family. 

"Don't  worry  about  that,  Campeau,"  said  he,  cord- 
ially. "I'll  take  care  of  all  that.  No  harm  shall  come 
to  her." 

"She  is  very  proud,  sir,"  ventured  Campeau. 

"  I  know  that.  It  shall  all  be  in  a  business  way.  I 
shall  simply  draw  a  new  mortgage  for  enough  to  cover 
the  old  mortgage  and  all  unpaid  interest,  and  destroy 
the  old  one." 

"But  will  that  not  be  only  postponing  the  day  of 
reckoning?  Next  year's  interest  will  be  heavier  than 
ever." 

"Very  little.  Figure  it  out  for  yourself.  The  two 
years'  interest  amounts  to  two  hundred  and  forty  dol- 
lars. Five  per  cent,  of  that  is  only  twelve  dollars. 
They  are  paying  six  per  cent,  now,  but  I  can  place  the 
new  mortgage  at  five.  Therefore,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 

258 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

the  interest  next  year  will  be  only  one  hundred  and 
twelve  dollars,  whereas  this  year  and  last  it  was  one 
hundred  and  twenty." 

"That  is  true,  sir.  But  when  they  come  to  paying 
off  the  principal — they  hope  to  do  that  some  day,  you 
know,  sir."  He  paused,  staggered  by  the  thought  of 
his  two  tender  mistresses  paying  off,  by  their  own  hands, 
an  indebtedness  of  over  two  thousand  dollars. 

"That  is  a  long  way  ahead,  Campeau,"  said  Daven- 
port, kindly.  "  A  man  of  your  wisdom  ought  hardly  to 
let  himself  worry  over  that  yet."  He  wanted  to  add, 
in  explanation  of  his  own  hopefulness,  that  he  expected 
to  pay  that  principal  himself  some  day,  as  Josephine's 
husband. 

The  old  man,  however,  was  not  satisfied,  and  evi- 
dently had  something  on  his  mind.  A  moment  later  it 
came  out. 

"The  young  ladies  have  a  very  dear  friend  in  the 
South,  Mr.  Davenport  —  a  gentleman  by  the  name  of 
Ze*nobe  Chouinard.  He  stood  by  them  through  all  their 
misfortunes,  so  far  as  they  would  let  him.  He  knows 
their  financial  condition  in  a  way,  though  he  can  hardly 
suspect  just  how  bad  things  are  with  them — how  fru- 
gally they  live,  or  how  little  they  have  spent  for  clothes 
since  they  came  here."  He  paused  and  drew  a  letter 
from  his  pocket.  "I  have  here,  sir,  a  letter  from  him 
asking  as  to  their  ability  to  meet  the  interest  on  this 
mortgage.  In  case  they  can't  pay  it,  he  offers  to  ad- 
vance it,  provided  it  can  be  arranged." 

"Why  did  he  write  to  you  instead  of  Miss  Josephine?" 
asked  Davenport. 

"It's  a  delicate  matter,"  answered  the  old  man, 
slowly. 

"Do  you  think  she  would  accept  aid  from  him?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  fear  not,"  said  Campeau,  gloomily. 
"That  is  why  I  came  to  you." 

?5Q 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

Davenport  suspected  that  the  old  man,  who  was  not 
as  clear-headed  as  he  once  was,  wanted  him  to  give 
Josephine  a  secret  credit  on  the  mortgage,  the  money 
to  come  from  Chouinard.  Of  course,  this  was  not  to  be 
thought  of,  and  it  was  not  likely  that  Chouinard  him- 
self would  be  a  party  to  such  a  plan. 

"I  can't  do  anything,  Campeau.  It  is  not  necessary 
that  we  should.  I  have  no  idea  that  Miss  Josephine 
would  accept  money  from  this  man.  But  if  she  would, 
and  matters  ever  come  to  a  crisis,  the  thing  for  you  to 
do  would  be  to  write  Chouinard  to  communicate  direct- 
ly with  her." 

He  was  about  to  add  that  he  himself  would  see  that 
matters  did  not  come  to  a  crisis,  when  the  red-headed  boy 
who  took  care  of  Mrs.  Shipman's  horse  noisily  opened 
the  door  and  bawled  in,  "Mrs.  Shipman  wants  to  see 
you  out  in  her  kerridge,  Morris." 

With  a  parting  word  to  Campeau,  who  was  still  in 
doubt,  Davenport  stepped  outside.  It  was  a  quarter- 
past  seven,  and  he  had  forty-five  minutes  to  spare  before 
going  up  to  Josephine's.  Mrs.  Shipman  and  her  daugh- 
ter, Mrs.  Hope,  were  in  the  carriage. 

"Get  in  with  Patrick,  Morris,  please,  and  ride  up  to 
the  house,"  said  the  old  lady,  recognizing  Davenport's 
step.  "  I  have  something  to  tell  you.  I  was  down  this 
afternoon  to  see  you,  but  Bertha  said  you  were  in  the 
city.  Do  you  go  to  the  city  to  work  or  play,  Morris? 
It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  gone  about  half  the  time." 

"To  work,  always,"  he  answered,  climbing  in  on  the 
front  seat. 

He  saw  Mrs.  Shipman  often,  but  it  had  been  months 
since  he  had  sat  in  her  old-fashioned,  high-ceiled  parlor, 
with  its  ponderous  horse-hair  furniture,  grim  family  por- 
traits, and  tall  mantel-piece.  As  he  awaited  the  return 
of  the  old  lady,  who  had  slipped  away  mysteriously  for 
something  she  had  to  show  him,  his  mind  ran  back  to  the 

260 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

barefooted  days  of  his  childhood.  Mrs.  Shipman  then 
used  to  bring  him  into  this  room,  as  a  treat,  and,  sitting 
down  to  the  old  rosewood  piano,  play  some  strange, 
slow  music,  the  like  of  which  he  never  heard  elsewhere. 

He  used  to  sit  down,  with  the  end  of  his  backbone 
hooked  over  the  edge  of  the  great,  slippery  chair,  and  his 
toes  dug  into  the  carpet  to  keep  from  sliding  off,  while 
he  nervously  revolved  his  tattered  straw  hat  in  his 
hands.  But  he  would  much  rather  have  stood.  More- 
over, the  parlor  was  really  no  treat  for  him ;  there  was  a 
chill  in  its  air  on  the  hottest  days,  and  he  never  could 
breathe  just  right  in  the  perfumed  atmosphere.  Also, 
when  he  lifted  his  dilated  eyes  to  the  family  portraits,  he 
was  always  awed  by  the  great  change  which  had  taken 
place  in  the  human  race  in  the  last  hundred  years,  for 
these  people  on  the  walls  reminded  him  of  no  men  or 
women  he  had  ever  seen.  The  women  had  such  long 
necks  and  sloping  shoulders,  and  the  men  such  slanting 
foreheads  and  peaked  noses. 

When  Mrs.  Shipman  returned,  she  carefully  closed 
both  doors,  gliding  from  one  to  the  other  without  the 
least  hesitation.  Then,  approaching  a  chair  as  unerr- 
ingly as  if  guided  by  sight,  she  drew  it  close  to  Daven- 
port, divining  his  position  by  some  sixth  sense,  appar- 
ently. She  sat  down  significantly,  confidentially.  In 
her  hand  she  held  some  small  object  wrapped  in  white 
tissue  paper. 

"Morris,  I've  been  so  nervous  about  this  all  day,"  she 
began.  "When  I  found  you  away  this  afternoon  I  was 
terribly  disappointed." 

"What's  the  trouble?  Not  that  little  thing  in  your 
hand?" 

"  Yes,  this  little  thing.     Wait  till  you  see  it." 

She  slowly  unfolded  the  thin  paper  and  lifted  out  a  dia- 
mond ring  of  unusual  size  and  brilliancy.  Yet  its  sparkle 
scarcely  surpassed  that  of  the  dark,  eager  eyes  above  it. 

261 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Morris,"  said  she,  in  a  guarded  tone,  "a  woman 
brought  that  here  this  morning  and  wanted  me  to  loan 
her  two  hundred  dollars  on  it.  I  can't  tell  you  her  name, 
because  that  wouldn't  be  fair.  But  it  is  her  engage- 
ment-ring, Morris,  and  she  must  need  the  money  very 
badly.  I  know  I  should  —  to  do  that."  She  softly 
fingered  the  solitaire  on  her  own  hand  a  moment,  and 
doubtless  her  mind  was  rambling  back  through  half  a 
century.  "Yet  I  didn't  let  her  have  the  money,"  she 
added,  plaintively.  "  I  wanted  to  see  you  first.  I  don't 
doubt  her  word  as  to  the  value  of  the  ring,  but  I  wanted 
to  ask  you  if  I  had  better  do  it." 

Davenport  took  the  ring  and  scrutinized  the  setting  a 
moment.  Then  he  quietly  handed  it  back. 

"That  may  have  been  some  woman's  engagement- 
ring,  mother,  but  it  wasn't  Volley  Congreve's,"  said  he, 
briefly. 

"Oh,  Morris!"  she  cried.  "I  didn't  mean  for  you  to 
know.  How  did  you  guess?" 

"That  ring  hung  on  Bradley  Hayford's  watch-chain 
for  several  months,  and  it  was  there  when  I  last  saw  it." 

"Then  how  did  she  get  it?"  demanded  Mrs.  Ship- 
man,  after  an  instant  of  astounded  silence. 

"I  presume  he  gave  it  to  her." 

Mrs.  Shipman's  slender  figure  stiffened  —  it  was  al- 
ways straight — and  a  bright-red  spot  appeared  on  each 
pale  cheek. 

"The  hussy!"  she  exclaimed.  "What  right  had  she 
to  accept  such  a  present  from  him?" 

"They  are  cousins,"  suggested  Davenport,  dryly. 

"Cousins  fiddlesticks!  It  took  them  a  long  time  to 
find  it  out.  No  one  ever  heard  much  of  their  cousin- 
ship  when  she  was  an  ungainly  girl  on  the  farm,  working 
like  a  slave.  To  think  that  that  woman  would  come 
here  to  my  house  and  tell  me  that  this  was  her  engage- 
ment-ring! The  cat!" 

262 


XXXIII 

THE  next  instant  her  low,  crooning  laughter  filled 
the  room. 

"Morris,  I  am  running  on  just  as  if  I  hadn't  lived  in 
the  same  town  with  Volley  Congreve  for  nearly  twenty 
years.  I  ought  to  know  her  by  this  time.  But  she 
sha'n't  have  a  cent,  not  a  cent.  Would  you  let  her  have 
a  cent,  boy?" 

"I  have  let  her  have  more  than  that,  in  times  past," 
said  he. 

"I  know — bless  you.  But  would  you — if  you  were 
I — under  the  circumstances?" 

"It  would  depend  on  what  she  wanted  it  for." 

"But  what  can  she  want  with  two  hundred  dollars?" 
asked  the  old  lady,  anxiously. 

"She  probably  doesn't  need  that  much  just  now.  But 
the  ring  is  worth  that,  and  much  more,  if  she  only  knew 
it;  and  as  she  can  hardly  expect  to  redeem  it,  she  wants 
to  get  as  near  its  value  as  possible." 

"But  I  am  not  running  a  pawn-shop." 

"I  understood  you  were  not." 

She  took  his  hand  playfully,  and  was  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

"  Do  you  suppose,  Morris,  that  her  husband  knows  she 
is  trying  to  borrow  money  on  that  ring?" 

"Hardly." 

"Do  you  suppose  he  knows  she  has  it?" 

"He  may." 

"Do  you  think  he  would  let  her  keep  it?  I  can't  be- 
lieve he  would." 

263 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"  He  might,  if  she  insisted.  He  lets  her  do  a  good 
many  things  he  doesn't  like." 

"Poor  man!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Shipman.  "But  why 
didn't  she  go  to  you  for  the  money?" 

"She  probably  suspected  that  I  would  recognize  the 
ring.  Besides,  she  knew  that  she  couldn't  hoax  me 
with  any  engagement  story." 

"As  she  did  me,"  added  Mrs.  Shipman,  gayly.  She 
slowly  wrapped  the  ring  up  again.  "  If  I  knew  that  she 
needed  two  hundred  dollars,  and  that  Harvey  was  will- 
ing for  her  to  borrow  it,  I  should  let  her  have  it,  even 
after  the  lie  she  has  told  me.  But  I  will  not  be  a  party 
to  any  deception.  I'll  give  her  back  the  ring,  and  if  she 
really  needs  a  little  money — " 

She  broke  off  at  the  clang  of  the  door-bell. 

"Maybe  that  is  she  now!"  she  exclaimed. 

Rejecting  Davenport's  offer  to  go  and  see,  she  arose 
and  glided  out  into  the  hall.  The  maid  had  not  yet 
lighted  the  ceiling  lamp,  but  light  and  dark  were  one  to 
Mrs.  Shipman. 

Davenport  heard  an  exclamation  of  pleasure  from  her, 
and  the  next  moment  Josephine  Priestley  stepped  into 
the  room.  Her  ruddy  cheeks  and  vigorous  body  ex- 
haled the  frosty  air  in  which  they  had  just  been  im- 
mersed, and  seemed  to  electrify  the  room.  Davenport 
sat  at  one  side,  screened  by  the  door,  and  she  did  not  see 
him  at  first.  Laying  down  the  music  which  she  had 
come  to  return,  she  crossed  the  room  with  swift  strides 
which  made  her  skirts  swirl  like  autumn  leaves  about 
her  feet,  and  paused  under  a  photograph  of  Davenport 
on  the  mantel-piece. 

The  picture  had  been  taken  when  he  was  a  boy,  and 
was  one  of  Mrs.  Shipman's  treasures.  Josephine  looked 
up  at  it  fixedly  for  an  instant.  There  was  only  the 
blind  woman  behind  her — so  she  supposed.  Her  arm 
swiftly  rose,  and,  before  Davenport  could  realize  what 

264 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

she  was  about,  or  betray  his  presence  by  some  sound, 
she  had  pressed  the  card-board  to  her  lips  and  replaced 
it  again. 

Then  she  turned.  A  visible  tremor  shot  through  her 
at  sight  of  the  man.  She  shrank  from  him,  and  the 
blood  of  shame  rolled  in  a  great  flood  up  her  neck  and 
cheek,  stained  her  snowy  temples,  and  lapped  the  roots 
of  her  hair. 

Davenport  lifted  a  warning  finger,  and  then  quietly 
saluted  her,  aloud,  for  the  benefit  of  Mrs.  Shipman. 
She  bowed,  glanced  at  the  door  as  if  contemplating  a 
dash  for  freedom,  and  then  sat  down.  At  first  she 
struggled  desperately  to  regain  her  ease.  But  her 
humiliation  was  too  deep,  and  she  finally  resigned 
herself  to  it.  Occasionally  a  flush  would  overspread 
her  face,  and  then  leave  it  pale  and  cold.  She  avoided 
Davenport's  eye,  and  spoke  only  when  she  had  to. 

Davenport's  heart  ached  for  her.  It  was  a  cruel  thing 
to  surprise  her  love  thus  at  its  shrine — to  lie  in  ambush 
and  peep  at  her  naked  heart.  Yet  a  great  joy  was 
bounding  in  his  bosom,  too,  and  he  had  a  wild  desire  to 
go  over  and  take  her  in  his  arms,  confess  their  love  to 
Mother  Shipman,  and  ask  her  blessing. 

When  Mrs.  Shipman  left  the  room  for  a  moment,  Jose- 
phine laid  all  pretence  aside  and  fixed  her  sorrowing  eyes 
upon  Davenport.  He  had  likened  her  pride  to  a  crown, 
and  thought  her  queenly;  but  now  her  humility  draped 
her  like  the  black  robe  of  a  nun,  and  she  was  more  than 
queen. 

"  Josie,"  said  he,  using  the  pet  diminutive  for  almost 
the  first  time,  "I  never  loved  you  till  now!" 

She  made  no  answer,  and  Mrs.  Shipman's  return  cut 
him  off  from  any  more.  When  Josephine  arose  to  go, 
very  soon,  Davenport  said  he  would  walk  home  with  her. 
She  apparently  assented,  but  at  the  foot  of  the  long 
flight  of  steps  descending  to  the  street,  she  stopped. 

265 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"I  don't  want  you  to  go  home  with  me,"  she  said. 

"I'm  going,  anyhow,"  said  he,  lightly,  and  drew  her 
hand  through  his  arm. 

She  withdrew  it  at  once. 

"  I  don't  wonder  that  you  think  you  can  make  me  do 
as  you  please,"  said  she. 

"Don't  be  foolish.  Do  you  mean  to  insinuate  that  I 
am  taking  advantage  of  what  happened  in  there?" 

"No  man  could  help  taking  advantage  of  it,"  she  an- 
swered, bitterly. 

He  eyed  her  steadily  for  a  moment. 

"  I  won't  hold  you  to  a  strict  accountability  just  now," 
said  he,  indulgently.  "  Let's  go  home.  I  was  going  to 
your  house,  anyhow." 

But  she  still  refused  to  move,  and,  looking  down, 
played  with  her  toe  upon  the  sidewalk. 

"I  wonder  just  what  you  think  of  me,"  said  she, 
finally. 

"  I  think  you  are  the  sweetest  girl  in  the  world."  He 
stole  the  finger-tips  of  one  hand,  and  she  pretended  to 
be  unaware  of  the  theft. 

"I  suppose  you  would  say  that  anyhow,  feeling  terri- 
bly sorry  for  a  girl  who  had  so  far  forgotten  herself." 

"No,  I  wouldn't." 

"Do  you  think  I  went  over  to  Mother  Shipman's  on 
purpose  to  do  that?"  she  asked,  desperately. 

"Certainly  not.  Such  a  thought  never  crossed  my 
mind,"  he  protested.  "Any  one  could  see  just  how 
it  happened  —  impulsively,  on  the  spur  of  the  mo- 
ment." . 

"Suppose  you  believed  that  I  went  there  with  that  in 
mind?  I  did  it  so  quickly  that  you  might — " 

"That  would  have  been  another  thing.  But  I  couldn't 
have  received  such  an  impression.  I  know  you  too  well. 
So  don't  worry  any  more." 

He  had  her  other  hand  by  this  time.  She  gave  him 
266 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

a  distressed  look,  tried  to  withdraw  her  hands,  and  then 
let  her  head  droop  in  a  shamefaced  way. 

"I  must — I  must  tell  you  that  I  did  go  for  that  pur- 
pose!" she  murmured. 

Just  how  it  happened  neither  could  have  told,  but  the 
next  moment  she  was  sobbing  on  his  shoulder — there 
on  the  streets  of  Tellfair,  at  eight  o'clock  at  night!  One 
of  his  hands  was  about  her  waist;  with  the  other  he 
softly  stroked  her  hair. 

It  lasted  only  a  moment.  Josephine  drew  away  from 
him,  wiped  her  eyes,  and  demurely  pressed  her  hair  into 
shape  again. 

"You  can  come  along,"  said  she,  dispiritedly.  "This 
has  been  a  terribly  unfortunate  evening  for  me.  I  have 
something  to  tell .  you  which  would  have  been  hard 
enough  before.  Now  it  is  almost  impossible.  But  I 
must  do  it.  We  agreed  some  weeks  ago  to  be  only 
friends,  although  we  had  confessed  we  were  lovers. 
You  have  just  seen  how  well  we  keep  the  agreement. 
We  also  agreed  that  you  were  to  come  to  see  me  but  once 
a  week.  You  know  how  well  we  have  kept  that,  too." 

She  gave  him  a  mournful  look. 

"Ah!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  quivering  sigh,  "we  have 
been  so  weak,  and  it  was  just  because  we  courted  temp- 
tation. We  might  have  known  we  could  not  see  each 
other  so  often  and  behave  properly.  And  now  the  harm 
has  been  done." 

"What  harm?"  ventured  Davenport. 

"Can't  you  see?"  she  asked,  wistfully. 

"No — not  especially." 

"You  don't  see  any  special  harm  in  broken  promises?" 

"  Not  if  the  promises  were  foolish." 

"Is  it  a  foolish  promise  that  keeps  one's  conscience 
clean  and  saves  a  woman's  name  from  tarnish?" 

"What  woman's  name  has  been  tarnished?"  he  asked, 
gravely. 

267 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Mr.  Bowman  came  to  me  last  Sunday  and  warned 
me  that  by  encouraging  your  attentions  I  was  doing 
great  harm  to  Bertha  Congreve.  Last  night  I  had  a 
talk  with  Bertha  about  it" — she  felt  him  start — "and 
I  am  convinced  that  Mr.  Bowman  was  right.  I  told  her, 
Morris,  that  you  and  I  could  never,  under  the  present 
circumstances,  be  more  than  friends,  and  that  we  both 
understood  it  so.  I  gave  her  my  word,  in  effect,  that  we 
should  not  be  more  than  that." 

Davenport  halted  abruptly,  and  transfixed  her  with 
a  stern  eye. 

"  Then  you  told  her  a  lie !  You  know  that  we  are  more 
than  friends,  and  that  all  the  promises  in  the  world  can- 
not change  the  fact,  even  though  we  put  the  earth  be- 
tween  us." 

"Oh,  please  don't  be  angry,  dear!"  she  exclaimed, 
with  a  pleading  hand  upon  his  arm.  "I  am  so  sorry! 
But  I  could  not  help  it.  Had  you  been  in  my  place, 
you  would  have  done  the  same.  I  don't  blame  you. 
I  don't  blame  anybody.  It  is  one  of  those  things  that 
perhaps  nobody  could  have  helped.  I  only  want  to  fix 
it  now  so  that  the  harm  will  go  no  further — so  that  we 
shall  never  blame  ourselves,  and  so  that  no  one  else  can 
ever  blame  us." 

"How  are  you  going  to  do  that?  Order  me  to  stay 
away?" 

"No — ask  you  to  stay  away,  dear.  That  is  the  only 
way." 

"Even  if  it  breaks  my  heart,  I  suppose." 

"Do  you  think  your  heart  would  break  sooner  than 
mine?"  she  asked,  gently.  "I  do  not  expect  either  to 
break.  Neither  of  us  is  so  weak  as  that." 

They  paused  at  the  tall,  sentinel-like  gate-posts. 

"Very  well,  I  submit,"  said  he,  quietly,  but  the  tenac- 
ity of  a  bull-dog  lay  on  his  lips.  "How  long  am  I  to 
stay  away?" 

268 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Until  I  tell  you  to  come  again." 
"How  long  will  that  be?" 

"  I  wish  I  could  tell  you,"  said  she,  smiling  plaintively. 
"Very  well.     Kiss  me  good-bye." 
He  drew  her  close,  and  kissed  her  slowly — once,  twice, 
thrice. 


XXXIV 

VICTORIA  bought  a  dozen  oranges  at  Hemingway's, 
and  asked  the  old  man  to  charge  them. 

"Miss  Priestley,  I  can't  give  your  sister  much  more 
credit  unless  she  pays  something  on  account,"  answered 
the  old  man,  bluntly.  "It  has  been  running  three 
months  now." 

The  sensitive  girl,  after  an  instant  of  stunned  incre- 
dulity, recoiled  with  a  red  spot  on  each  cheek  as  vivid 
as  if  made  by  the  lash  of  a  whip.  Then,  without  a  word, 
and  scarcely  conscious  of  what  she  did,  she  laid  the 
bag  of  fruit  on  the  counter  and  swiftly  left  the  store. 

Hi  Hemingway,  unpacking  some  goods  in  the  rear  of 
the  store,  paused  with  a  can  of  corn  in  his  hands. 

"That's  a  hell  of  a  nice  break  you  made,  father,"  said 
he,  angrily. 

The  old  man  was  staring  conscience-stricken  at  the 
paper  bag  on  the  counter,  but  his  graceless  son's  sharp 
attack  threw  him  into  an  attitude  of  defence. 

"It's  a  break  that  you  will  have  to  make  very  often, 
sir,"  he  answered,  harshly,  "if  you  intend  to  keep  very 
long  the  business  your  father  will  leave  you  when  he 
dies." 

Meanwhile,  Victoria  walked  rapidly,  almost  breathless- 
ly, homeward,  ran  into  the  house,  and  sobbed  out  her 
story  to  Josephine. 

"Why,  you  foolish  child!"  said  Josephine,  laughing, 
and  enclosing  Victoria  with  her  arms.  "  I  thought  some- 
thing terrible  had  happened.  That  is  only  old  man 

270 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

Hemingway's  helpless  way  of  saying  he  would  like  a 
little  money.  He's  that  way  to  everybody." 

Nevertheless,  she  was  paler;  and  ten  minutes  later 
Campeau,  with  solemn  visage  and  short,  rheumatic  steps, 
was  on  the  way  down-town  with  a  check  for  Chris  Hem- 
ingway's account  in  full.  It  was  a  brave  check,  as 
written  in  Josephine's  swinging  hand;  but  it  filched 
twenty-five  dollars  from  the  interest  fund  in  the  bank. 
And  the  interest  was  due  in  just  seven  days! 

The  girls  were  facing  a  financial  crisis.  During  the 
summer  they  had  been  able  to  live  and  lay  aside  some- 
thing towards  the  interest.  But  winter  was  coming 
on;  coal  and  wood  had  to  be  bought,  and  some  wraps 
and  heavy  underwear  as  well,  for  those  which  they 
brought  with  them  from  New  Orleans  were  inadequate 
for  Tellfair's  more  rigorous  climate.  And  the  interest 
was  still  one  hundred  dollars  short! 

The  outlook  sometimes  filled  Josephine  with  terror. 
Frequently,  in  the  dead  of  night,  when  the  moon  was 
filling  her  room  with  a  weird,  creepy  radiance,  like  the 
light  from  a  dying  sun,  she  would  rise  to  her  elbow  and 
look  at  Victoria's  placid,  sleep  -  flushed  face,  with  the 
pale  hair  strewn  over  temple  and  cheek.  Josephine 
knew  not  what  the  uncertain  future  might  bring  to  that 
sweet  face.  The  best  she  could  expect  was  lines  of  care, 
with  the  girlish  love  of  life  gone.  And  the  worst —  But 
she  would  not  allow  herself  to  think  of  the  worst. 

How  easy  it  would  be  to  checkmate  that  threatening 
future!  Merely  let  go  of  herself  and  marry  the  man  she 
loved.  What  booted  it  that  people  might  talk?  As  the 
wife  of  Morris  Davenport,  they  would  soon  come  fawn- 
ing back  to  her.  And  what  real  difference  would  it  make 
to  Bertha?  Sharpen  her  pain  for  a  little,  perhaps,  but 
mercifully  shorten  it.  For  Davenport  could  never  be 
anything  to  her  again. 

But  each  time  the  monitor  within  warned  her  that  the 
271 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

tempting  fruit  had  a  worm  at  its  core ;  and  as  one  turns 
from  the  brink  of  a  precipice  with  the  sickening  fear  that 
he  may  throw  himself  over  against  his  will,  so  Josephine 
turned  from  thoughts  of  marriage  with  Davenport. 

On  the  day  following  the  Hemingway  incident,  the 
sisters  went  out  to  make  some  collections  from  their 
pupils.  The  work  was  new,  and  distasteful  as  well,  and 
their  faces  were  rather  long.  Victoria  wanted  them  to 
make  the  rounds  together,  so  as  to  bolster  each  other 
up,  but  the  practical  Josephine  promptly  vetoed  this 
waste  of  time. 

When  they  returned  about  six  o'clock — Victoria  at 
half -past  five — and  emptied  their  purses  on  the  table, 
the  heap  of  silver  counted  up  fifteen  dollars.  It  was 
about  one-third  of  what  they  had  outstanding.  Vic- 
toria, whose  nerves  had  reached  their  limit,  gave  a  shriek 
of  laughter. 

"Tie  it  up  in  your  stocking,  Jo,  and  hang  it  in  the 
well!"  she  cried,  mockingly.  "There  are  burglars  in  the 
land." 

The  hollow  fun  continued  as  they  worked  over  their 
separate  little  account-books,  giving  proper  credits  and 
striking  the  puny  balances  in  their  favor.  In  their  hearts, 
each  was  wondering  how  long  the  other  could  hold  out. 
Then  an  unusual,  an  almost  unprecedented  thing  hap- 
pened. Old  Jean  entered  and  asked  for  money!  Old 
Jean,  whom  they  had  unconsciously  come  to  believe  as 
independent  of  money  almost  as  a  spirit,  so  simple  and 
so  few>were  his  wants!  A  very  little  would  do,  he  said, 
apologetically,  as  he  stood  at  the  door,  hat  in  hand. 
Seventy-five  cents  would  be  enough.  He  had  a  little 
debt  down-town  for  smoking-tobacco,  and  he  needed  a 
pair  of  gloves.  Sawing  wood  was  rather  hard  on  gloves, 
and — 

Josephine  snatched  up  some  coins  from  the  table  as 
blithely  as  though  the  little  heap  would  magically  re- 

272 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

plenish  itself,  like  the  widow's  cruse,  and  stopped  his 
apologies  with  a  quick,  nervous  laugh. 

"  Never  apologize  to  me  again,  Jean,  when  you  come 
for  money,  unless  you  want  to  make  me  cry!"  she  said. 
The  mist  had  already  gathered  in  her  eyes. 

Campeau  gravely  counted  out  seventy-five  cents  and 
handed  the  rest  back.  More  than  this  he  respectfully 
but  obstinately  refused  to  accept.  Then,  thanking  them, 
he  left  the  room.  With  him  went  all  the  young  ladies' 
hilarity. 

His  coming  had  jogged  their  memories.  Time  was 
when  Campeau  had,  not  wages,  but  a  monthly  allowance, 
for  he  was  virtually  a  member  of  the  family  by  reason 
of  his  long  service.  The  allowance  was  generous,  like 
everything  else  emanating  from  the  open-handed  Harold 
Priestley,  and  had  enabled  the  frugal  Jean,  during  the 
years,  to  lay  away  several  thousand  dollars.  Then  came 
the  crash  which  laid  the  Priestley  fortune  low.  Jean 
promptly,  and  as  a  matter  of  fact,  tendered  his  savings 
to  Mr.  Priestley.  They  were  kindly  but  firmly  refused 
by  the  head  of  the  house,  who  had  no  intention  of  pour- 
ing this  precious  gill  of  water  into  a  thirsty  bank  of  sand 
like  his  debts,  and  Jean  had  to  wait  for  another  day  to 
show  his  loyalty. 

The  day  soon  came.  It  was  during  that  black  sum- 
mer when  horrid  pestilence  stretched  its  leathern,  vam- 
pire wings  over  the  Southern  city  and  poisoned  the  air 
with  its  fetid  breath;  when  some  of  the  Priestleys  lay 
dying  and  some  dead ;  when  business  was  prostrate  and 
every  man  fierce  for  his  dues.  Then  Campeau  and  his 
few  thousands  were  the  only  barrier  between  the  stricken 
family  and  the  cohorts  of  neglect,  hunger,  and  naked- 
ness. Jean  himself  survived  the  shock  and  attrition  of 
many  a  charge,  but  his  savings  melted  away  like  ice  in 
a  boiling  caldron. 

It  was  the  recollection  of  this  which  brought  a  lump 
is  273 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

to  Josephine's  throat  as  the  old  man  stood  before  her 
apologizing  for  the  pittance  he  had  asked.  For  months 
she  had  given  him  scarcely  anything.  She  had  offered 
it,  to  be  sure,  and  he  had  refused.  But  she  knew  why. 
She  knew  that  he  was  supplying  his  simple  wants  by  odd 
jobs  about  town — sawing  wood,  beating  carpets,  mow- 
ing lawns.  He  was  too  old  for  this  work,  and  too 
rheumatic;  but  she  dared  not  remonstrate,  and  scarcely 
dared  take  cognizance  of  it.  She  knew  that  the  old 
man  had  a  horror  of  proving  a  burden  to  her. 

The  two  girls  sat  in  silence,  with  the  little  heap  of 
silver  between  them.  Tears  in  Josephine's  eyes  always 
had  a  dispiriting  effect  upon  Victoria,  and  she  now  sat 
very  quiet  and  subdued.  Josephine  still  held  her  pencil 
in  her  ringers,  and  still  bent  over  her  book ;  but  the  figures 
were  only  blurred  outlines  through  the  tears  in  her  eyes. 
Finally  she  gave  up  trying  to  hide  them.  Lifting  her 
brimming  lashes  to  Victoria,  she  said,  in  a  choking  voice 
and  with  quivering  lips  and  nostrils : 

"  I  am  a  baby  to  cry  this  way,  Vic,  but  my  heart  is  so 
full  that  I  just  can't  help  it.  Now  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
something.  We  must  have  money.  That  interest  must 
be  paid,  and  we  must  have  some  heavier  clothing  for 
winter.  There  is  only  one  way  to  get  it.  That  is  for  me 
to  get  on  the  train,  go  to  Chicago,  and  sell  our  jewelry." 

Victoria  gasped  and  turned  pale. 

"Oh,  Josie,  this  is  terrible!" 

"  It's  pretty  bad.  But  not  so  bad  as  being  in  debt,  or 
cold  and  hungry." 

"What  would  people  say  if  they  knew?" 

"  I  don't  intend  that  they  shall  know,  but,  if  they  did, 
it  would  make  no  difference  to  me." 

"Suppose  Morris  should  hear    of  it." 

"I'd  sooner  have  him  know  it  than  some  other  people 
I  could  name.' 

"  But  wouldn't  he  think  it  strange,  Jo,  that  we  should 
274 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

go  to  such  extremes  for  money  when  we  could  get  it  from 
him  so  easily?" 

"  Do  you  think  we  could  get  it  so  easily?"  asked  Jose- 
phine, significantly.  Victoria  understood,  and  said  no 
more. 

"  Now  go  up-stairs  and  get  our  jewel-cases,"  said  Jose- 
phine. 

The  cases  were  not  heavy.  All  of  the  more  valuable 
family  jewels  had  been  sacrificed  two  years  before  on  the 
altar  of  Harold  Priestley's  debts.  But  Josephine  made 
a  fair  foundation  for  the  present  sacrificial  offering  by 
stripping  the  rings  from  her  fingers — every  one  of  them, 
even  to  a  frail  band  which  she  had  worn  almost  to  a 
thread  and  which  was  practically  worthless.  Victoria, 
with  a  whimper,  followed  suit,  and  then  the  silver  cases 
were  opened. 

They  culled  out  their  own  personal  trinkets  first;  it 
was  easier  to  give  these  up.  But  these  constituted 
hardly  a  quarter  of  the  contents.  The  rest  were  little 
keepsakes  of  the  dead.  Victoria  shrank  from  the  task, 
but  Josephine  resolutely  lifted  out  a  heavy  bracelet  bear- 
ing the  name  "Helen."  Others  followed — a  ring  of 
Honoria's,  a  chatelaine  of  Clementine's,  a  pin  of  Hono- 
ria's,  another  pin,  a  brooch  of  Helen's,  and  so  on,  until 
all  of  any  value  lay  on  the  table. 

She  paused  once  over  a  baby's  ring  tied  with  a  bit 
of  blue  ribbon.  Then,  with  compressed  lips,  she  lifted 
that  out,  too,  and  laid  it  on  the  heap.  Victoria  winced 
and  blinked  rapidly,  but  said  nothing.  Then,  with  an- 
othsr  spasmodic  movement,  Josephine  lifted  a  brooch  of 
quaint  construction.  This  time  a  cry  of  pain  escaped 
Victoria's  lips. 

"Oh,  Josie,  that  was  mamma's!" 

"I  know  it,  dear.  But  if  mamma  could  speak  to  us 
now,  in  our  trouble,  what  do  you  think  she  would  tell  us 
to  do?" 

275 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Won't  there  be  enough  without  that?"  asked  Vic- 
toria, quiveringly.  "We  have  given  up  almost  every- 
thing else." 

Josephine  hesitated,  and  then,  yielding  to  the  cry  of 
her  own  heart,  put  the  brooch  back. 

"And  Honoria's  baby  ring?"  eagerly  added  Victoria. 

Smiling  and  blinking,  the  elder  sister  put  the  little 
ring  back  also,  as  tenderly  as  if  it  still  encircled  the 
chubby,  baby  finger. 


XXXV 

TWO  trains  reached  Tellfair  from  Chicago  in  the 
afternoon — one  at  half-past  four,  the  other  at  half- 
past  six.  Victoria  expected  Josephine  back  on  the  first 
one,  if  all  had  gone  well  in  the  city,  and  was  at  the 
station  a  good  twenty  minutes  ahead  of  time.  She 
anxiously  paced  the  platform  and  looked  at  her  little  sil- 
ver watch — which  was  not  worth  selling — at  least  every 
two  minutes. 

Neither  of  the  girls,  in  their  innocence,  had  been  at  all 
sure  of  their  ability  to  dispose  of  their  jewelry.  It  was 
possible,  according  to  them,  for  Josephine  to  be  suspect- 
ed of  handling  stolen  goods,  and  even  of  being  taken  up 
for  a  thief.  In  fact,  Victoria  had  a  wild  idea  that  the 
train  might  bring,  instead  of  Josephine,  an  officer  with 
a  warrant  for  her  (Victoria's)  arrest,  as  an  accomplice 
of  her  sister.  She  supposed  that  innocent  people  had 
suffered  imprisonment  thus  before;  indeed,  she  had  read 
of  such  things  in  the  papers.  But  if  they  were  sent  to 
jail,  Morris  Davenport  would  soon  get  them  out,  and 
make  somebody  smart  for  it  as  well. 

In  her  heart,  of  course,  Victoria  knew  that  all  this 
speculation  was  nonsense.  Yet  she  experienced  genuine 
relief  when  Josephine  stepped  off  the  train.  Moreover, 
she  had  a  large  bundle  under  her  arm.  That  told  of  suc- 
cess. In  that  bundle,  Victoria  knew,  were  warm  things 
and  pretty  things —  But  it  shall  not  be  opened  here. 

"Where  did  you  sell  them?"  she  almost  whispered. 

"In  a  pawn-shop,"  answered  Josephine. 
277 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

Victoria  gasped.  Her  blue  eyes  were  a  study  as  she 
stared  half  horrified  at  her  sister,  with  visions  in  her 
mind  of  a  tumble-down  den  in  the  heart  of  Chicago's 
slums,  the  haunt  of  outcasts  and  thieves. 

When  Josephine,  in  the  security  of  the  house,  showed 
the  pawn-ticket,  Victoria  was  surprised  to  find  it  white 
and  clean;  but  she  still  eyed  it  with  suspicion  and  took 
it  in  her  hands  very  gingerly,  as  if  fearing  contagion. 

"But  how  could  you  ever  go  in,  Josie?"  she  asked, 
admiringly. 

"A  pawn-shop  is  nothing  like  what  you  and  I  have  al- 
ways supposed  it — at  least,  this  one  wasn't.  It  was  as 
clean  as  this  room,  and  looked  like  a  first-class  jewelry- 
store.  A  policeman  told  me  where  to  go.  While  I  was 
there  a  carriage  drove  up  to  the  door,  and  an  elegant- 
ly dressed  woman  came  in.  She  was  heavily  veiled 
though,"  she  added. 

"How  much  did  you  get  for  them  all?" 

"Two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars." 

Victoria  clapped  her  hands  in  glee,  and  Josephine 
withheld  her  opinion  that  the  keepsakes  were  worth  at 
least  twice  that  amount. 

When  the  big  bundle  had  been  duly  opened,  and  the 
contents  sorted,  paired  off,  matched,  fondled,  exclaimed 
over,  and  in  some  instances  tried  on,  Victoria  said: 

"  We  are  invited  over  to  Catlin's  to-night  to  some  kind 
of  doings.  I  told  Elizabeth  we  should  come  if  you  weren't 
too  tired." 

"I  am  awfully  tired,  but  I  suppose  we  ought  to  go." 

They  did  not  go,  however,  and  they  had  a  better 
excuse  for  remaining  at  home  than  Josephine's  fatigue. 
It,  the  excuse,  came  in  on  the  half-past  six  train  from 
Chicago,  and  registered  at  the  Basley  House. 

He  was  a  man  of  perhaps  forty-five.  When  he  laid 
his  silk  hat  on  the  rack  at  the  dining-room  door,  he 
uncovered  a  head  of  black  hair  which  time  had  distinctly 

278 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

thinned.  Yet  the  brown  eyes  behind  his  gold  nose- 
glasses  were  as  bright  and  alert  as  a  squirrel's.  There 
was  scarcely  a  wrinkle  on  his  face,  and  not  a  streak  of 
gray  in  his  mustache  or  foreign-looking  imperial. 

He  looked  decidedly  "  Frenchy  "  to  the  staff  of  chair- 
warmers  in  the  office;  and  when  they  moved  to  the 
register,  upon  the  guest's  departure  for  the  dining-room, 
and  inspected  his  name,  they  pronounced  him  French 
beyond  a  doubt.  "Zenobe  Chouinard,  New  Orleans," 
was  what  the  stranger  had  signed,  in  a  microscopic 
hand.  Discussion  as  to  the  pronunciation  of  the  name 
followed,  but  the  majority  finally  agreed  with  Red  Mc- 
Gowan  that  "Chewinard"  was  the  common-sense  pro- 
nunciation, and  doubtless  the  correct  one. 

"You're  wrong,  Red,"  piped  up  a  nervous  little  man. 
"I  used  to  know  a  family  by  that  name,  and  it's  pro- 
nounced '  Shoonawr.' ' 

McGowan  gave  his  insignificant  critic  a  contemptuous 
stare,  and  then  burst  into  a  guffaw. 

"What  the  hell  are  you  givin'  us,  Tibbets?"  he  asked, 
roughly,  and  swaggered  back  to  the  card-table. 

The  sensitive  Tibbets  sank  into  a  chair.  His  shame 
and  chagrin  must  have  been  intense  to  nerve  him  to  the 
deed  which  followed;  for  no  sooner  had  the  Frenchman 
emerged  from  the  dining-room  than  Tibbets,  to  the 
amazement  of  everybody,  stepped  up  to  him  and  said: 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,  but  the  boys  have  had  a  little  argu- 
ment about  your  name,  and  I  claimed  it  was  pronounced 
'  Shoonawr.'  Would  you  mind  telling  me  if  that  is 
right?" 

Chouinard  lighted  the  cigarette  which  he  had  drawn 
from  a  case,  took  a  puff  or  two,  and  eyed  his  inter- 
rogator through  his  glasses.  It  looked  very  much  as  if 
Spencer  Tibbets  was  in  for  a  second  snub.  However,  the 
stranger  answered  quietly,  even  politely,  "Yes,  my  name 
is  commonly  pronounced  that  way  by  Americans." 

279 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

He  slipped  into  a  light  overcoat,  just  the  cut  of  which 
had  never  before  been  seen  in  Tellfair,  and  walked  out. 
After  two  or  three  deep  inhalations,  he  filliped  his  cig- 
arette into  the  street,  and  lit  a  very  small,  very  black 
cigar.  This  he  also  smoked  rapidly,  but  it  was  not  half 
consumed  when  he  tossed  it  away  at  the  Priestley  gate. 
He  stood  and  looked  at  the  house  for  a  moment  before 
entering,  with  a  peculiar  smile  on  his  handsome  face, 
and  softly  stroked  his  jetty  mustache. 

Victoria  opened  the  door.  For  a  moment  she  blinked 
uncertainly  into  the  darkness.  Then,  with  a  sharp  cry, 
she  sprang  forward  into  the  gentleman's  arms,  and  was 
promptly  kissed.  The  commotion  brought  Josephine 
into  the  hall.  She,  too,  after  a  gasp  of  astonishment,  let 
slip  a  little  joyous  cry  and  sprang  forward.  But  she 
gave  him  her  hands  only,  and  he  did  not  attempt  to  kiss 
her. 

What  a  night  that  was!  They  drew  the  curtains 
tight,  to  shut  out  the  village — just  as  they  used  to  do 
in  the  old  days,  when  the  village  was  almost  an  un- 
known country  to  them — and  then  flew  on  the  wings 
of  memory  back  into  the  past.  Chouinard  had  a  busy 
time  of  it.  Where  was  Delphine?  And  Eugenie?  No, 
Eugenie  Joncaire  —  not  Delaroche.  But  where  was 
Eugenie  Delaroche,  also?  And  Hortense  was  married 
— at  last!  And  Coralie  —  had  she  really  gone  to  a 
convent?  Married  instead?  Oh,  the  sly  little  minx! 
And  two  children — marvellous!  And  Clarisse — he  cer- 
tainly remembered  Clarisse — how  many  children  had 
she?  Clarisse  had  none — that  is,  one,  and  was  in  heaven 
with  it.  Ah!  Tears  sprang  into  the  girls'  eyes.  But 
so  tender  had  been  their  joy  that  this  sorrow  jarred  not 
against  it;  and  the  next  moment,  at  another  tidbit  from 
Chouinard,  they  smiled  through  their  tears. 

Then  Chouinard  recalled  his  former  visits  to  Tellfair, 
eight,  nine,  and  ten  years  before.  Had  they  been  out 

280 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

to — what  was  it  called? — the  Weech's  Caldron  lately? 
No!  Then  they  must  go  to-morrow.  He  would  hire 
a  carriage.  Did  they  remember  the  time  dear  Helen 
ruined  her  gown  with  the  coffee,  out  there,  on  the 
picnic?  And  how  provoked  Antonio  became  because 
they  insisted  that  he  was  to  blame,  by  keeping  so  close 
to  her! 

Next  he  wanted  to  know  what  the  girls  were  doing — • 
if  they  were  happy,  or  ever  got  homesick  for  the  South. 
They  told  him  about  their  pupils,  and  laughed  over  the 
prices  they  got  for  lessons.  They  confessed  to  attend- 
ing a  Protestant  church,  and  said  they  liked  it,  when 
Chouinard  drolly  called  them  apostates.  Josephine  told 
about  her  public  singing,  and  Victoria,  in  anything  but 
a  sad  tone,  related  her  sad  experience  at  cooking.  They 
talked  about  the  Reverend  Mr.  Bowman,  Mrs.  Bowman, 
old  Campeau — whom  Chouinard  insisted  on  having  called 
in  at  once — and  Mrs.  Shipman,  Mr.  Congreve,  and  others. 
Victoria  mimicked  some  of  the  village  characters  until 
the  tears  ran  down  their  visitor's  cheeks,  and  Josephine's 
funny  anecdotes  were  endless.  In  fact,  they  told  him 
about  everything — except  the  pawn-ticket  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  old  clock. 

"Ah,  you  are  having  good  times,"  sighed  Chouinard, 
"and  you  will  soon  forget  the  old  friends  in  the  South!" 

"  No,  no!"  said  Josephine,  quickly.  "We  shall  never 
do  that." 

She  felt  that  they  had  been  deceiving  him  with  their 
hilarity.  Yet  she  instantly  regretted  a  certain  im- 
pulsiveness in  the  last  remark.  It  had  brought  an  ex- 
pression into  Chouinard's  eyes  which  she  would  rather 
not  have  evoked.  It  was  an  expression  she  had  seen 
there  before. 

Chouinard  had  no  exact  knowledge  of  the  resources  of 
the  girls,  though  he  knew  these  could  not  be  great;  and 
he  was  too  truly  polite  to  use  even  his  eyes  now  to  inform 

281 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

himself.  But  some  things  he  could  not  help  seeing.  The 
girls  were  well  gowned ;  the  piano  still  occupied  the  mu- 
sic-room ;  the  old,  costly  furniture  was  strewn  about ;  Vic- 
toria got  out  her  tea-set  and  made  tea,  as  of  yore;  and, 
later,  fruit  and  cakes  were  served.  Surely  this  was  not 
poverty. 

How  could  Chouinard,  being  a  man,  remember  that 
he  had  seen  those  same  gowns  on  their  dead  sisters? 
It  escaped  his  mind  that  the  piano  was  now  a  tool  for 
earning  bread.  And  how  could  he  know  that  old  Cam- 
peau  had  been  secretly  despatched  for  the  fruit  after 
the  guest's  arrival? 

The  next  morning  the  trio  drove  out  to  the  Witch's 
Caldron.  Many  picnickers  had  been  there  since  that 
distant  day  when  Helen  had  spilled  the  coffee  on  her 
gown,  but  the  same  altar-like  pile  of  stones  on  which 
the  coffee  had  been  boiled  was  still  there.  And  high 
above,  on  the  summit  of  the  heap  of  great  rocks,  from 
which  one  could  see  miles  and  miles  of  prairie,  with 
Rock  River  laid  across  it  like  a  ribbon,  the  initials  of 
the  happy  party  of  that  summer  day  could  still  be  read. 
Josephine's  throat  ached  as  she  looked.  Yet  she  was 
also  thinking  of  that  later  day  when  Davenport,  taking 
her  out  to  see  his  parents'  home,  had  offered  to  drive 
over  here. 

Chouinard  took  dinner  with  the  girls — they  called  it 
lunch,  for  the  sake  of  old  times.  At  the  first  oppor- 
tunity after  the  meal  he  led  Victoria  aside. 

"You  used  to  be  a  very  accommodating  little  girl, 
Vic,"  said  he,  taking  both  her  hands  in  his.  "  Have  you 
forgotten  the  art  yet?  I  want  to  talk  to  Josie  for  a 
little  while  alone,  and  I  want  you  to  keep  out  of  the  way. 
Will  you  do  it?" 

His  manner  was  significant,  and  Victoria  looked  at 
him  questioningly.  Then,  nodding  an  affirmative,  she 
ran  away.  She  loved  Ze'nobe  Chouinard,  and  thought 

282 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

him  one  of  the  best  of  men.  Yet  she  was  sorry  he  had 
spoken. 

"Josephine,"  said  Chouinard,  when  they  were  alone, 
"I  don't  know  whether  you  have  suspected  my  errand 
to  the  North  or  not.  I  hope  you  have.  Last  night 
I  fancied  that  you  had." 

His  heart  might  well  have  melted  at  the  picture  be- 
fore him.  Always  beautiful,  there  were  times  when 
Josephine  was  fairly  glorified  by  a  matchless  poise  and 
expression.  This  was  one  of  the  times.  She  knew  what 
was  coming;  but  she  must  wait,  being  a  woman,  until  he 
had  spoken.  She  could  neither  hurry  him  nor  stop  him, 
and  thus  save  her  feelings.  So  there  she  sat,  as  impar- 
tial as  Justice  herself.  When  he  paused,  she  gravely 
lowered  her  eyes  to  the  floor. 

"  I  am  twenty  years  older  than  you,  Josie,"  he  contin- 
ued. "  I  am  old  enough  to  be  your  father.  I  have  long 
loved  you  and  Victoria  as  a  father  loves  his  children. 
That,  I  believe,  you  know.  Yet  I  have  also  loved  you 
in  another  way  for  what  seems  a  long  time  to  me — for 
nearly  five  years.  I  hesitated  to  tell  you  so  while  you 
were  in  New  Orleans.  There  were  younger  men  around 
you  who  might  perhaps  have  made  you  happier  than  I 
could.  But  now  you  have  left  them  all  behind,  and,  had 
you  left  your  heart  with  one  of  them,  I  think  I  should 
have  heard  of  it  before  this.  You  have  come  up  here, 
where  I  presume  it  is  unlikely  that  you  will  meet  a  man 
suited  to  you  by  birth  and  social  training.  An  alien  race 
is  around  you.  Is  it  presumptuous  for  me  to  come  for- 
ward now  and  ask  you  to  become  my  wife?" 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  rich  with  emo- 
tion, "I  cannot  marry  you." 

"Why — if  I  may  ask?"  said  he,  gently. 

"Because  I  do  not  love  you  as  you  love  me." 

"I  hardly  expected  that  you  could,"  said  he,  quietly. 
"  But  can  you  not  learn  to  love  me?  I  would  cut  off  my 

283 


The    Pride    of    Tel  If  air 

right  hand  rather  than  shatter  one  of  your  youthful 
illusions,  my  dear  girl;  but  I  have  lived  long  enough  to 
know  that  love  is  not  merely  a  matter  of  affinity  or 
destiny.  We  love  those  who  are  good  and  kind  to  us, 
who  share  our  aspirations  and  pleasures  and  philosophy 
of  life.  We  love  those  with  whom  we  have  long  been 
associated,  provided  they  are  right-minded  people,  and 
not  out  of  our  sphere.  Love  is  a  plant.  Given  proper 
soil,  and  watered  and  cared  for  daily,  it  thrives  and 
grows  to  maturity.  It  doesn't  spring  into  lusty  being  at 
some  magic  touch.  I  think  I  could  intelligently  care 
for  such  a  plant.  What  I  am  personally,  you  know. 
You  respect  me,  I  hope;  and  you  admire  me — I  have 
been  told — a  little." 

"Very,  very  much,"  she  interpolated. 

"  I  can  give  you  and  Victoria  a  home.  I  can  give  you 
the  luxuries  to  which  you  have  long  been  accustomed. 
I  can  take  you  back  into  a  society  where  you  both 
are  loved  and  honored,  among  a  people  who  share  your 
traditions,  blood,  custom,  and  history.  Victoria  would 
certainly  have  a  better  chance  of  marrying  happily  there 
than  here.  You  must  both  sometimes  be  lonely  here. 
You  must  sometimes  hunger  for  the  social  and  intellect- 
ual advantages  of  your  old  home.  From  what  you 
have  told  me,  I  know  that  you  both  work  hard.  It  is 
a  beautiful,  a  grand  thing  to  see  two  delicately  nurtured 
girls  rise  so  heroically  to  the  occasion,  and,  refusing  to 
brood  over  their  almost  unparalleled  disasters,  go  to 
work,  as  you  have  done,  for  a  living.  Yet,  if  you  will 
pardon  me,  it  is  also  a  pathetic  sight.  It  is  not  your 
proper  work.  Some  man  ought  to  be  doing  that  for 
you.  He  could  do  it  so  much  better  than  you,  at  so 
much  less  cost,  and  leave  you  leisure  for  higher,  nobler 
things.  Will  you  not  let  me  be  that  man? 

"I  do  not  want  to  bribe  you.  I  would  not  have  you 
as  a  purchase,  and  I  speak  thus  plainly  because  I  know 

284 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

you  would  not  come  as  a  purchase.  But  these  are 
weighty  things,  and  must  be  considered.  Their  absence 
or  their  presence  does  much  to  make  or  to  mar  love  in 
any  case.  People  are  just  as  human  after  marriage  as 
before,  and  chafe  just  as  much  under  bonds.  If  you 
don't  love  me  now  in  just  the  way  that  I  love  you,  if 
you  only  feel  kindly  towards  me,  is  not  everything  in 
your  favor  for  learning  to  love  me  later?  And  if  ever 
a  man  strove  to  win  a  woman's  love,  that  man  will  be 
Zenobe  Chouinard.  I  will  strive  for  it  as  I  would  strive 
for  immortality — because  it  would  be  immortality  for 
me.  It  would  give  me  a  seat  with  the  angels,  here  and 
hereafter." 

He  saw,  with  a  thrill,  that  his  words  were  not  with- 
out effect.  Josephine  had  grown  pale,  and  the  hand 
which  lay  in  his  was  as  cold  as  ice.  If  these  signs  of  a 
powerful  emotion  touched  his  heart,  and  made  his  con- 
science hint  that  his  mode  of  attack  was  not  quite  fair, 
he  quieted  the  latter  with  the  assurance  that  he  truly 
believed  all  that  he  had  said,  and  had  only  her  good 
in  mind. 

With  the  image  of  Morris  Davenport  before  her,  Jose- 
phine had  at  first  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  Chouinard.  But 
as  the  latter  went  on,  so  kindly  and  so  earnestly,  it  had 
flashed  over  Josephine  that  she  had  no  right  to  stop  her 
ears  with  thoughts  of  Davenport's  love.  For  if  true 
to  herself,  to  Bertha,  and  to  even  Davenport  himself, 
she  could  never  marry  him.  That  was  why  she  had 
turned  pale. 

"I  want  you  to  think  over  carefully  what  I  have 
said,"  Chouinard  continued,  quietly,  "because  I  believe 
it  means  much  to  us  both.  I  shall  not  leave  this  even- 
ing, as  I  intended,  but  will  wait  until  to-morrow  even- 
ing. That  will  give  you  time  enough,  will  it  not?" 

She  nodded,  vaguely,  like  one  in  a  dream. 

"  Very  well.  Whatever  decision  you  reach,  I  will  sub- 
285 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

mit  to  without  a  word.  Remember  that.  I  have  stated 
my  case  in  full.  But  please  think  it  over  very,  very 
carefully,"  he  added,  pleadingly. 

He  softly  rose.  She  did  not  move,  but  continued  to 
gaze  at  the  floor.  As  if  loath  to  disturb  her,  he  silently 
pressed  her  hand  and  slipped  away. 


XXXVI 

CHOUINARD'S  words,  distasteful  as  they  were,  sank 
into  Josephine's  understanding  like  a  subtle  poison. 
Tellfair,  like  an  ugly  masquerader  deftly  unmasked,  was 
suddenly  revealed  to  her  in  all  its  dulness,  littleness,  and 
meanness ;  and  its  dwarfing,  deadening  limitations  seem- 
ed already  to  press  upon  her. 

But  the  phrase  which  rang  through  her  consciousness 
over  and  over  again,  and  made  her  pride  cower,  was,"  Yet 
it  is  also  a  pathetic  thing"!  Those  cruel  words,  to 
describe  the  efforts  she  had  thought  so  noble!  They 
crashed  down  through  her  to  the  very  roots  of  hope, 
knocked  the  last  prop  from  under  her  sinking  spirits, 
and  made  her  work  only  despicable  drudgery.  They 
ruthlessly  tore  her  from  the  little  pedestal  she  had  in- 
nocently raised  for  Victoria  and  herself,  and  flung  her 
down  among  the  common,  toiling  millions.  Her  labors 
and  sacrifices  were  not  giving  her  the  strength  and  har- 
dihood she  had  so  fondly  imagined,  but  were  merely 
grinding  out  of  her  what  it  had  taken  generations  of 
wealth,  leisure,  and  culture  to  put  in. 

There  was  something  so  cruel,  so  maddening  in  the 
thought  that  she  gave  a  little  wail  of  misery.  Then, 
angrily  lifting  her  head,  with  flashing  eyes  she  said, 
aloud,  "It's  a  lie,  a  trap,  a  dastardly  snare  !" 

But  she  knew  it  was  not.  She  knew  that  Ze*nobe 
Chouinard  truly  loved  her,  and  would  set  no  such  thing 
for  her.  True,  he  could  be  mistaken ;  but  somehow  the 
dread  words  took  hold  of  her  mind  fiercely  as  her  heart 

287 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

fought  against  them.  Had  she  not  herself  at  first  been 
afraid  of  deteriorating?  Had  not  she  and  Victoria  open- 
ly talked  it  over?  What  were  these  words  of  Choui- 
nard's  but  this  same  truth  in  another  form? 

All  the  old  fears  were  now  awake  and  clamoring.  If 
she  had  ceased  to  regard  herself  as  .superior  to  the 
villagers,  it  was  only  because  she  was  sinking  to  their 
level,  she  reflected;  and  not,  as  she  had  proudly  thought, 
because  she  had  broadened.  She  had  attended  a  con- 
cert the  week  before — one  of  the  numbers  on  Tellfair's 
lecture  course.  As  her  mind  ran  back  to  the  dingy  hall, 
and  the  disorderly  boys  in  the  rear — howling,  whistling, 
and  spitting  on  the  floor — and  the  excruciating  chairs, 
she  was  fairly  sick.  When  she  recalled  that  she  had 
really  enjoyed  the  entertainment — she  who  had  listened 
to  the  glories  of  grand  opera  in  a  palatial  opera-house 
— a  wave  of  shame  passed  over  her.  Was  this  to  be 
her  fate?  Was  she  to  live  and  die,  knowing  nothing 
henceforth  better  than  this,  and  to  be  satisfied  with  it? 
Was  she,  at  twenty-four,  to  have  the  best  of  life  behind 
her? 

How  contemptible  was  everything  around  her!  She 
recalled  with  loathing  the  petty  jealousies,  the  gossip 
and  scandal-mongering.  None  so  pure  as  to  escape  the 
mud  of  slander.  The  l>est  people  in  Tellfair  had  been 
spotted,  and  very  likely  she  herself  among  them.  Here 
was  a  clique,  and  there  a  clique.  Here  the  band,  there 
the  Ladies'  Schubert  Club.  The  two  editors  of  the  town 
shotted  their  columns  almost  weekly  with  ironies,  if  not 
open  abuse,  and  fired  them  at  each  other's  heads.  Even 
the  churches  took  sly  pokes  at  one  another.  It  was  all 
very  unlovely,  depressing,  and  squalid. 

Even  Morris  Davenport  came  in  for  his  share  of  this 
bitter  and  unjust  mood.  His  enemies  were  as  thick  as 
cloverheads  in  June.  There  were  men  in  Tellfair  who 
would  spend  ten  dollars  to  keep  him  from  making  one 

288 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

— although  they  seldom  kept  him  from  it.  There  were 
men  who  called  him  thief — yea,  libertine.  She  knew 
that  these  were  lies,  and  that  it  was  not  his  fault  if  he 
occasionally  drew  a  blade  in  self-defence.  Yet  what  had 
Morris  really  done  but  make  money?  And  thousands 
of  men  in  the  cities  had  made  more  of  that  than  he. 

Yet  she  was  now  upon  a  dangerous  theme  —  for 
Ze*nobe  Chouinard's  suit.  It  was  precisely  at  this  point 
that  something  within  her  began  to  rebel  and  cry  out 
against  her  injustice.  Through  the  mist  of  bitterness 
and  despair  all  about  her,  the  reddish-brown  eyes  of 
Davenport  shone  tranquilly,  with  that  sense  of  power, 
that  easy  confidence,  which  never  failed  to  uplift  her, 
in  some  magic  way,  and  make  her  think  more  of  herself 
and  mankind. 

That  night  she  had  a  dream.  The  scene  was  Ze"nobe 
Chouinard's  great  house.  Guests  were  flocking  in  and 
out.  Jasmine  and  orange  freighted  the  air  with  their 
languorous  breath.  The  soft,  sensuous  strains  of  a 
hidden  orchestra  floated  through  the  rooms.  Jewels, 
bright  eyes,  and  the  white  arms  and  breasts  of  fair 
women  flashed  against  the  black  coats  of  the  men.  She, 
Josephine  Chouinard,  the  bride  of  an  hour,  stood  in  the 
centre  of  it  all,  bowing  and  smiling  at  the  old,  familiar 
faces. 

Yet  something  about  the  guests  was  not  familiar.  A 
spell  of  some  kind  lay  over  them.  They  whispered 
strangely  and  impolitely  to  one  another,  and  advanced 
and  receded  in  a  noiseless,  stealthy  way.  Then,  too, 
Clarisse  was  among  them — Clarisse,  who  was  in  heaven 
with  her  babe.  That  was  most  strange.  But  more  dis- 
turbing than  all  this  was  a  black  -  robed  figure  which 
stood  half  concealed  among  the  palms  in  an  anteroom. 
Man  or  woman,  she  knew  not.  It  never  came  forward, 
never  went  away,  but  drifted  about  among  the  palms 
like  an  uneasy  shade  of  the  dead. 
'<>  289 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

Finally,  filled  with  a  nervous  dread,  Josephine  whis- 
peringly  asked  an  old  girl  friend  who  the  strange  guest 
might  be.  The  girl  lifted  her  head  incredulously, 
laughed  rudely  in  Josephine's  face,  and  turned  on  her 
heel. 

A  moment  later,  by  one  of  those  sudden  transitions 
common  in  dreams,  Josephine  found  herself  alone.  Not 
a  guest,  not  even  her  husband,  was  in  sight,  and  an 
appalling  silence  had  fallen  over  the  house.  But,  to 
her  great  alarm,  there  was  the  apparition  still  among 
the  palms. 

In  desperation,  Josephine  approached  it.  She  now 
saw  that  it  was  a  man,  and,  hoping  to  conciliate  him,  she 
asked,  in  her  sweetest  tones,  if  he  would  not  like  to  see 
her  new  home.  He  gravely  nodded  assent,  and,  with 
a  fast-beating  heart,  she  led  him  from  room  to  room, 
peering  ever  about  for  her  husband,  or  a  lingering  guest, 
or  even  a  servant.  But  no  one  was  in  sight.  Even  the 
kitchen  was  deserted. 

"Now  I  have  shown  you  all,"  said  she,  as  they  halted 
in  the  anteroom  again.  "Shall  I  call  your  carriage?" 

"All!"  he  said,  in  a  sepulchral  voice  that  sent  her 
heart  into  her  throat.  "Where  is  your  bridal-chamber, 
woman?" 

"My — my  what?"  she  gasped,  but  she  had  heard  him 
well. 

"Your  bridal-chamber,"  he  repeated,  threateningly. 

"Why — why,  I  had  not  thought  of  that,"  she  an- 
swered, with  a  little  hysterical  laugh.  "How  strange! 
I — I  have  only  been  married  an  hour.  But  here  it  is." 

He  gazed  gloomily  into  the  dimly  lighted  apartment, 
rich  with  rugs  and  tapestries,  glancing  with  mirrors,  and 
heavy  with  perfume. 

"She  had  not  thought  of  it!"  he  mused,  sardonically. 
Then,  suddenly  lifting  a  pair  of  burning  eyes  and  point- 
ing within  with  outstretched  arm,  he  said,  sternly,  "  This 

290 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

is  the  beginning  and  the  end.  This  is  the  substance. 
All  else  is  shadow." 

Trembling  to  her  knees,  she  followed  him  back  to  the 
front  door.  Then,  to  her  horror,  she  recognized  Morris 
Davenport.  Not  the  blithe,  sunny  Davenport  of  Tell- 
fair,  but  a  gloomy,  black,  ghastly  Davenport. 

Thoughtless  of  her  bare  arms  and  shoulders  in  the  chill 
night  air,  she  sprang  down  the  steps  after  him.  For 
what  seemed  miles  and  miles  she  followed  him,  crying 
pitifully  with  every  step  for  him  to  stop.  At  last,  by 
mighty  effort,  she  caught  his  hand,  for  he  now  seemed 
to  tower  high  above  her. 

He  stopped  and  regarded  her  sternly  for  a  moment. 

"Madam,  you  are  another  man's  wife,"  he  said, 
harshly,  and  shook  her  off  and  left  her  there  on  her 
knees. 

"Oh,  my  God,  what  have  I  done!" 

She  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  with  a  wildly  beating  heart, 
these  words  still  on  her  lips.  She  at  first  imagined  her- 
self still  in  Ze"nobe  Chouinard's  house;  ay,  in  his  bed. 
But  as  one  familiar  object  after  another  dawned  on  her 
dilated  eyes,  and  she  realized  that  she  was  in  Tellfair, 
in  her  own  home  and  room,  still  Josephine  Priestley,  she 
gave  a  sob  of  relief,  and  murmured  fervently  and  solemn- 
ly, "Oh,  thank  God,  thank  God!" 

Victoria  stirred.  The  thanks  died  on  Josephine's  lips 
and  in  her  heart.  She  remembered  that  she  still  had  a 
sister  who  could  not  be  sacrificed,  whatever  she  chose 
to  do  with  herself.  Still  trembling  and  excited,  she 
buried  her  face  in  the  pillow  and  humbly  asked  God  to 
show  her  the  way. 

The  morning  sun  dispelled  her  hallucination  and  her 
weakness.  She  attacked  the  problem  again  with  steady 
nerves  and  a  clear  head.  But  an  unexpected  factor — 
an  absurd  factor,  indeed — now  came  into  play.  She 
discovered  that  she  could  not  perfectly  recall  Daven- 

291 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

port's  features,  familiar  as  they  were.  Try  as  she 
would  to  prevent  it,  the  figure  of  her  dream  would  slip 
its  dark  and  sinister  visage  between  her  mind's  eye  and 
Davenport,  producing  a  distorted  image.  She  was  first 
amused,  then  annoyed,  then  troubled.  By  ten  o'clock 
she  had  an  almost  irresistible  desire  to  see  Davenport, 
just  to  correct  this  absurd  aberration  of  her  memory. 
By  half -past  ten  she  was  on  the  way  to  his  office,  with 
a  check  for  the  interest  in  her  purse,  although  she  had 
fully  intended  to  mail  it  to  him.  It  would  serve  as  an 
excuse  for  her  call. 

Davenport's  eyes  —  the  same  old  Davenport  —  first 
opened  wide  with  surprise  at  sight  of  her,  and  then 
lighted  with  pleasure.  But  when  she  quietly  advanced 
and  laid  down  the  interest  check,  the  light  faded  from 
his  eyes. 

He  knew  two  things — first,  that  she  was  in  no  posi- 
tion to  pay  the  interest  from  her  earnings;  second,  that 
Chouinard  was  in  town.  It  was  no  reflection  on  his 
acuteness,  therefore,  when  he  jumped  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  money  had  come  from  the  Creole.  That  it  had 
been  borrowed  in  due  form,  and  probably  secured,  he 
had  no  doubt.  Nor  did  he  suppose  that  the  transaction 
rested  on  any  other  basis  than  friendship.  But  it  stung 
him  that  Josephine  should  have  gone  to  another  than 
himself  for  help. 

She,  on  her  part,  had  come  in  the  tenderness  of  her 
heart  to  make  sure  that  his  beloved  face  was  not  drawn 
with  pain,  and  now  he  was  looking  coldly  upon  her. 
Thus,  in  an  instant,  a  subtle  barrier  had  reared  itself 
between  them. 

"Bradley  Hayford  was  in  to  see  me  a  few  days  ago," 
he  observed,  as  he  wrote  a  receipt.  "  He  wants  to  buy  a 
stock-farm  west  of  town,  and  says  he  will  need  the  money 
he  has  out  on  your  mortgage.  Any  one  of  half  a  dozen 
clients  of  mine  will  be  glad  to  assume  the  mortgage,  and 

292 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

at  a  lower  rate  of  interest  than  it  now  bears — five  per 
cent,  instead  of  six.  It  is  possible,  though,  that  you 
know  where  you  can  do  still  better,  or  where,  for  any 
other  reason,  you  would  prefer  to  place  the  mortgage. 
I  thought  I  ought  to  bring  it  to  your  attention." 

What  concealed  imp  in  his  heart  prompted  that 
speech!  Josephine  started,  and  then  looked  him  stead- 
ily in  the  eye. 

"What  do  you  mean — Morris?"  she  asked,  quietly. 

"You  came  near  calling  me  Mr.  Davenport,"  said  he, 
playfully,  instantly  penitent,  and  trying  to  divert  her. 

"Would  you  prefer  that  I  should  place  the  mortgage 
myself?"  she  asked,  ignoring  his  advances. 

"  Prefer  fiddlesticks,  Josephine!  Of  course  I  wouldn't 
prefer  it.  I  simply  thought  I  ought  to  ask  you." 

She  studied  him  for  a  moment  with  puzzled,  disap- 
pointed eyes. 

"Where  could  7  possibly  place  it?"  she  asked. 

Was  she  trying  to  deceive  him?  He  could  not  believe 
it;  yet  the  demon  of  jealousy  made  him  answer,  " In  the 
same  quarter,  I  thought,  perhaps,  that  this  money  came 
from." 

She  looked  at  him  blankly  for  a  moment,  and  then  the 
truth  flashed  over  her.  With  it  came  a  rush  of  blood 
to  her  face.  For  a  moment  the  secret  of  the  interest 
money  trembled  on  her  lips.  But  she  was  too  deeply 
wounded.  He  was  not  worthy  of  the  confidence.  In 
her  confusion,  she  handed  him  back  the  receipt  and 
arose  to  go.  Then,  remembering  that  the  business  was 
not  settled  yet,  she  sat  down  again. 

"Josephine,  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you,"  said  he, 
humbly.  "I  really  thought  that  you  might  prefer  to 
place  the  mortgage  there.  You  have  a  perfect  right  to 
do  so,  you  know.  It  is  simply  a  matter  of  business." 

"  Morris,  did  you  ever  find  me  unduly  willing  to  accept 
favors  from  your  hands?"  she  asked,  passionately. 

293 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Never.     Always  the  other  way." 

"If  I  wouldn't  accept  favors  from  you,  do  you  sup- 
pose I  could  accept  them  from  any  other  man?" 

"Haven't  you?"  he  asked,  puzzled. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  sad,  piteous  smile. 

"You  love  me,  Morris,  but — you  don't  know  me.  I 
have  not.  Good-bye.  I  shall  leave  the  mortgage  to 
you  because — because  you  are  in  my  pay." 

"Josephine,  come  back!"  he  commanded. 

"I  can't  come  back.     I  am  too  hurt." 

"If  you  don't  come  back,  I  shall  go  with  you." 

She  obeyed,  reluctantly. 

"Josie,"  he  began,  earnestly,  "I  have  had  every  rea- 
son to  believe  that  you  were  by  your  own  efforts  unable 
to  raise  that  interest.  I  don't  want  to  betray  a  con- 
fidence, but  that  good  old  man  at  your  house — Cam- 
peau — has  expressed  great  anxiety  to  me  about  it.  An 
old  friend  comes  to  visit  you — a  friend  amply  able  to 
help  you,  as  I  happen  to  know.  What  more  natural 
than  that  I  should  assume  that  he  had  helped  you?" 

"Yes,  it  was  natural — not  knowing  me,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"I  do  know  you,"  he  declared,  earnestly.  "I  know 
what  a  brave,  proud  girl  you  are,  and  I  didn't  suppose 
for  a  minute  that  you  had  accepted  any  favor  from  him 
that  couldn't  be  classified  as  business." 

She  still  shook  her  head,  as  if  to  repeat  that  he  did  not 
know  her. 

"Is  that  all?"  she  asked. 

"No.     I  want  you  to  forgive  me." 

"  I  can't  forgive  you  yet,"  she  answered,  with  hot  eyes. 
"But  I  will— I  will." 

"Consider  my  position,  Josephine,"  said  he,  pleading- 
ly. "I  have  promised  not  to  come  to  see  you  again. 
Can't  you  imagine  my  feelings  if  you  leave  me  in  this 
way?" 

294 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

This  to  her  who  was  even  then  considering  an  offer  of 
marriage  from  another  man!  Had  he,  after  all,  wrong- 
ed her  as  much  as  she  had  wronged  him?  Was  it  not 
she,  rather  than  he,  who  should  be  suing  for  forgiveness? 
The  old  tenderness  flooded  her  eyes. 

"  I  am  not  angry,  Morris,  but  I  can't  force  my  heart," 
she  said,  gently.  "  You  wouldn't  want  mere  words.  But 
I  have  almost  forgiven  you.  When  I  have  done  so 
completely,  I  will  write  you  a  little  note.  It  shall  be 
very  soon." 

In  the  outer  office  she  paused  to  speak  to  Bertha,  but 
the  young  woman  was  distant  and  cold.  All  recollec- 
tion of  their  last  tender  interview  seemed  to  have  passed 
from  her  mind. 

When  Josephine  stepped  out  into  the  hall,  she  would 
have  liked  to  lean  her  head  against  the  wall  and  cry. 
Through  all  her  struggles  in  the  months  gone  by,  in  her 
very  darkest  hours,  the  image  of  Davenport  had  loomed 
before  her  like  a  cloud  by  day  and  a  pillar  of  fire  by 
night.  The  love  and  trust  of  this  strong,  courageous 
man  had  been  an  inexpressible  comfort  to  her.  His 
fearless,  tender  eye  would  come  to  her  at  the  most  un- 
expected times  like  a  benediction.  Others  might  fail 
her,  but  he  never.  And  should  the  worst  come,  should 
every  other  refuge  be  closed  against  her,  should  this 
bread-winning  fight  end  in  defeat,  she  could  fly  to  him 
without  shame  and  be  saved. 

But  now  !  Ah,  the  bitterness  of  it  !  Even  he  had 
doubted  her.  The  ground  seemed  to  slip  beneath  her 
feet,  and  in  her  misery  she  turned  to  Chouinard,  the 
friend  of  her  father  and  her  childhood.  Traitorous 
thoughts  filled  her  mind,  and  she  went  over  the  ground 
again  of  the  day  before.  She  knew  her  mood  was  reck- 
less, and  in  very  madness  she  wished  she  might  meet 
Chouinard  at  that  moment  and  let  him  fix  her  halting 
decision  beyond  recall. 

295 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

She  met,  instead,  a  Mrs.  Hanson,  whose  daughter  was 
one  of  Josephine's  most  promising  pupils.  Mrs.  Hanson 
stopped  her,  and  after  a  little  preliminary  sparring  gave 
her  a  body  blow  by  announcing  that  Mr.  Hanson  had 
decided  to  give  Elsa  no  more  lessons  at  present. 

"Aren't  you  satisfied  with  my  teaching?"  asked  Jose- 
phine, haughtily. 

"It  ain't  exactly  that,  Miss  Priestley,  because  her 
voice  certainly  is  improved.  But  her  father,  Mr.  Han- 
son, seems  to  think  she  ought  to  be  singin'  classical 
music  by  this  time,  or  something  like  that — which  of 
course  she  ain't,  you  know."  She  smiled,  kindly. 

Josephine's  nostrils  curled  scornfully.  Here  was  some 
more  village  ignorance. 

"The  song  she  is  studying  now,  Mrs.  Hanson,  is  one 
of  Charles  Gounod's.  Doesn't  your  husband  consider 
that  classical?" 

"Well,  I  suppose  he  meant  opries  and  such — pieces 
like  the  'Holy  City,'  you  know.  I  would  love  to  have 
Elsa  singin'  that  piece,  myself.  Now,  Miss  Webster, 
over  at  Marysville,  gave  that  piece  to  Susie  Lasalle  in 
her  second  month,  and  she  does  real  well  at  it.  She 
sung  it  at  a  G.  A.  R.  camp-fire  not  long  ago,  and  both 
the  papers  spoke  of  it." 

"Miss  Webster's  methods  and  mine  are  different, 
then,"  answered  Josephine,  brusquely.  "I  studied 
three  years  before  my  teacher  gave  me  a  song  of  that 
character.  He  was  one  of  the  best  in  Paris,  and  he 
charged  five  dollars  a  lesson." 

Mrs.  Hanson  looked  helpless  under  these  figures. 

"Of  course,  I  ain't  findin'  fault  with  your  methods, 
Miss  Priestley.  I'm  sorry  her  father — " 

"Oh,  it  makes  no  difference  to  me,"  said  Josephine, 
quickly.  "I'm  only  sorry  for  the  girl.  She  has  an  un- 
usual voice,  and  I  hate  to  see  it  ruined  by  some  igno- 
rant person.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it  isn't  likely 

296 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

that  I  shall  teach  much  longer.  In  fact,  my  sister  and 
I  are  thinking  of  returning  to  New  Orleans." 

"You  don't  say!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hanson,  brighten- 
ing at  this  unexpected  bit  of  news  and  change  of  sub- 
ject. "  I  hadn't  heard  of  it.  It's  quite  sudden,  isn't 
it?" 

Josephine  said  that  it  was,  rather,  and  then  retreated 
out  of  range  of  further  questions.  Five  rods  distant  she 
stopped,  conscience-stricken,  and  turned  to  look  at  Mrs. 
Hanson's  rapidly  disappearing  figure.  For  a  moment 
she  was  tempted  to  pursue  the  woman  and  retract  her 
words.  But  her  pride  balked. 

"Fool!  fool!  fool!"  she  exclaimed,  bitterly.  "In 
twenty-four  hours  that  story  will  have  gone  the  rounds 
of  the  town." 

As  she  was  laying  off  her  hat,  Victoria  came  into  the 
hall. 

"What's  the  matter,  Jo?"  asked  the  latter,  scenting 
trouble. 

"Victoria,  Mr.  Chouinard  has  asked  me  to  marry 
him,"  said  she,  with  a  hard  glitter  in  her  eyes. 

"I  supposed  yesterday  that  he  would." 

"I  am  in  doubt  what  to  tell  him." 

Victoria  looked  at  her  sister  wonderingly.  She  was 
not  ignorant  of  some  of  the  passages  between  Josephine 
and  Davenport. 

"Do  you  love  him?"  she  asked,  quietly. 

"No." 

"Then  why  should  you  be  in  doubt?" 

"For  that  very  reason,  and  because  I  do  love  you, 
and  myself,  and  don't  like  to  be  poor,  and  driven  like 
a  slave  by  necessity." 

"But  you  can't  marry  a  man  that  you  don't  love," 
answered  Victoria,  with  a  finality  that  seemed  to  settle 
the  question  then  and  there,  for  all  time. 

Josephine  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  in  silence.  In 
297 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

the  light  of  those  pure,  blue  eyes  Chouinard's  plausible 
words  seemed  empty,  mocking,  and  profane.  She  sud- 
denly placed  her  arm  around  Victoria's  neck  and  kissed 
her.  It  was  not  affection  alone  which  made  her  cling 
so  tight.  It  was  the  feeling  that  she  had  hold  of  a  rock 
of  refuge. 

"No,  I  can't,"  she  answered,  peacefully. 

And  that  is  what  she  told  Chouinard  when  he  came 
in  the  afternoon. 


XXXVII 

IN  this  day  of  steam  and  electricity  the  advantages 
of  a  great  city  are  shared  in  a  measure  by  the  small- 
town dwellers  for  many  miles  around.  Bradley  Hay- 
ford,  for  instance,  never  missed  Chicago's  annual  horse- 
show,  and  a  prize-fight  at  Tattersall's  could  hardly  have 
been  "pulled  off"  without  his  burly  presence.  He  oc- 
casionally served  in  an  official  capacity  at  the  latter,  and 
his  picture  had  once  appeared  in  a  pink  sporting  paper. 

Returning  from  a  fight  in  June,  he  had  brought  with 
him,  on  his  watch-chain,  a  ring  set  with  a  large  diamond. 
He  had  accepted  it,  he  said,  in  lieu  of  cash,  from  a 
broken-down  sport,  in  settlement  of  a  bet  on  the  fight. 
It  was  a  woman's  ring,  and  doubtless  could  have  told  a 
sad  enough  story  of  its  own.  But  of  that  Bradley  knew 
nothing  and  thought  less. 

The  ring  instantly  caught  Volley  Congreve's  magpie 
eye  for  anything  that  glittered ;  and  when  she  discovered 
that  it  was  a  perfect  fit  for  one  of  her  fingers,  Bradley 
used  to  let  her  wear  it,  childlike,  when  they  were  out 
riding  together. 

"Volley,  you  needn't  take  that  ring  off  this  time," 
said  Hayford.  "I'm  going  to  make  you  a  present  of 
it." 

They  were  returning  from  Brandon,  ten  miles  distant, 
where  he  had  gone  to  look  at  some  horses.  It  was  dusk, 
and  the  electric  lights  of  Tellfair  were  twinkling  across 
the  purple  prairie. 

"Do  you  mean  it?"  she  asked,  flushing  with  pleasure. 
299 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Sure,"  he  answered,  bluffly. 

"It  is  splendid  of  you,  Bradley!"  she  exclaimed.  The 
next  moment,  though,  she  looked  up  into  Hayford's  face 
with  eyes  that  gleamed  daringly  in  the  dark,  and  added, 
"What  do  you  suppose  Harvey  will  say?" 

"What  could  he  say?  Haven't  I  give  you  things  be- 
fore?" he  asked,  bluntly. 

"Nothing  as  valuable  as  this." 

"It  didn't  cost  me  anything.     Easy  come,  easy  go." 

"  Harvey  is  so  peculiar,  and  he  gets  worse  every  day. 
I  don't  believe  he  would  let  me  keep  the  ring,  if  he  knew. 
But  I  am  going  to  keep  it,"  she  added,  quickly,  at  an 
impatient  motion  from  him.  "Only,  we  won't  say  any- 
thing to  him  just  yet  about  it.  That  is,  you  mustn't. 
Then,  some  time,  when  he's  in  the  right  mood,  I'll  tell 
him." 

"I  don't  know  what  he  could  kick  about,"  grumbled 
Hayford.  "  I  don't  fancy  giving  a  gift  that  way." 

Volley  was  callous  herself,  but  even  she  shrank  from 
this  flintiness — this  complaining  at  a  husband  for  not 
allowing  his  wife  to  accept  a  five-hundred-dollar  stone 
from  another  man.  But  her  shrinking  was  not  visible. 

"Don't  blame  me,  Bradley,"  said  she,  plaintively.  "7 
can't  help  it.  Harvey  is  a  cripple,  and  very  sensitive. 
You  know  what  I  think  of  you,  and  that  I  value  that 
ring  as  much  as  anything  I  have — not  for  its  intrinsic 
value,  but  because  it  comes  from  you." 

There  was  no  heart  in  the  words,  though,  and  she  had 
to  smile  at  her  own  clumsy  cajolery.  There  had  been 
a  time  when  she  fancied  she  liked  Hayford;  but  of  late, 
since  he  had  begun  to  show  decidedly  that  he  liked  her, 
she  had  discovered  that  it  was  only  his  horses  and  free- 
handedness  that  she  liked. 

His  arm  lay  on  the  back  of  the  seat.  A  moment  later 
he  dropped  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder.  It  was  the 
first  time  he  had  ever  taken  such  a  liberty,  and  she 

300 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

glanced  up  quickly  to  see  if  the  act  were  intentional. 
The  amorous  face  which  blocked  her  vision  showed  her 
that  it  was.  She  dropped  her  eyes  and  waited,  like  a 
skilful  player  in  a  game. 

"Don't  I  get  more  than  thanks  for  that,  Volley?"  he 
asked,  rather  wondering  at  the  pounding  within  his 
great,  iron-muscled  chest. 

She  turned  her  head  slightly  away,  but  at  the  same 
time  yielded  to  the  pressure  of  the  arm  which  brought 
her  nearer  him.  Her  conscience  was  as  frayed  as  a  worn 
rope's-end,  but  it  still  performed  its  functions  after  a 
fashion,  and  now  warned  her  to  beware. 

"You  mustn't,"  said  she,  with  cheeks  of  scarlet.  It 
was  her  first  overt  sin  with  him. 

"Just  once,"  he  pleaded.  "It's  certainly  worth  one. 
Nobody  will  ever  know." 

She  fought  him  off  a  little  longer,  but  merely  out  of 
coquetry,  for  she  had  already  made  up  her  mind  that  it 
would  be  policy  to  yield.  Then,  with  a  swift,  instinctive 
glance  over  the  darkening  fields  for  any  chance  onlooker, 
she  lifted  her  lips  and  received  his  unhallowed  kiss. 
She  was  as  passionless  as  a  stone;  her  lips  were  cold,  and 
the  kiss  lifeless.  It  chilled  Hayford's  ardor,  apparently 
— disappointed  his  riotous  anticipations.  The  rest  of 
the  way,  as  straight  and  level  as  the  bed  of  a  railroad, 
was  passed  in  silence.  If  anything  could  be  gathered 
from  Hayford's  stolid  face,  he  was  inwardly  cursing 
himself  for  his  impulsive  generosity,  and  no  doubt  re- 
peating to  himself  one  of  his  favorite  maxims  —  that 
"love  is  not  what  it's  cracked  up  to  be." 

As  Volley  climbed  from  the  buggy,  unaided,  at  her 
gate,  she  said,  with  forced  emotion,  "  It  was  very  sweet 
of  you,  Bradley,  to  give  me  that  ring." 

At  first  she  carefully  screened  the  costly  gift  from 
Harvey's  eye,  but  wore  it  constantly  when  she  went 
down-town,  slipping  it  on  at  the  door,  and  taking  it  off 

301 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

there  when  she  returned.     Then  she  told  "Bert"  about 
it — from  a  desire,  no  doubt,  to  divide  the  responsibility. 

The  indifference  with  which  her  daughter  received  her 
confession  eased  Volley's  conscience  considerably,  and 
it  was  not  long  before  she  had  a  desire  to  try  the  same 
thing  on  her  husband.  But  cripple  though  he  was, 
neglected  and  hoodwinked  every  day,  there  was  some- 
thing about  him  which  even  his  bold  and  hardy  mate 
feared,  and  she  approached  the  delicate  task  with  all  the 
caution  of  her  catlike  nature.  She  put  on  the  ring  and 
entered  his  study,  carelessly.  But  he  did  not  notice 
the  ring  that  day,  or  the  next,  or  even  the  third,  al- 
though she  flashed  it  in  his  very  eyes. 

The  fourth  day,  resolved  to  be  done  with  it,  she  sat 
down  at  the  table  opposite  him,  and  dropped  her  be- 
jewelled hand  naturally  upon  the  green  cloth.  The 
glittering  bait  lay  there  for  five  minutes,  all  unseen  by 
its  victim,  while  Volley's  heart  thumped  considerably 
harder  than  usual.  Then  there  came  a  moment  when 
she  knew,  without  turning  her  head,  that  he  had  seen 
it;  and  although  not  a  muscle  of  her  well-schooled  face 
moved,  her  gray  eyes  dilated  just  the  least. 

"Volley,  where  did  you  get  that  ring?"  he  asked,  ab- 
ruptly. 

"  What  ring  ?  Oh,  that  diamond?"  She  yawned  and 
patted  her  lips  with  the  jewelled  hand.  "That's  Brad- 
ley's.  He  let  me  wear  it  for  a  while." 

She  said  it  so  carelessly,  with  such  finished  art  and 
coolness,  that  one  would  have  thought  it  had  been  easy 
for  her  to  add,  "  He  said  I  might  have  it  if  I  wanted  it." 
But  those  words  were  utterly  beyond  her  power,  for  in 
a  moment  she  would  have  to  meet  those  clear,  brown 
eyes  of  her  blameless  husband.  At  that  instant  she 
hated  those  eyes,  for  they  had  made  a  coward  of  her; 
but  she  feared  them  none  the  less  for  that. 

"Is  that  the  ring  he  won  at  the  prise-fight?" 
302 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Yes." 

"When  did  he  let  you  have  it?" 

"Several  days  ago."     It  was  actually  several  weeks. 

"Give  it  back  to  him  the  first  time  you  see  him,  and 
never  wear  it  again." 

"What  harm  is  there  in  my  wearing  it?"  she  asked, 
resentfully. 

"There  might  be  great  harm.  Have  you  worn  it  on 
the  street?" 

"  Once  or  twice."  She  quailed  before  his  next  words, 
and  regretted  having  admitted  that  tithe  of  the  truth. 

"  Don't  you  know  better  than  that?"  he  asked,  sharp- 
ly. "Don't  you  know  that  such  a  thing  as  that  might 
get  you  talked  about?" 

"  It  never  crossed  my  mind,"  she  answered,  truthfully. 
"  Nobody  knows  that  it  is  his  ring;  and,  even  if  they  did, 
they  know  he's  my  cousin.  You  are  so  suspicious  of 
people,  Harvey,"  she  continued,  complainingly.  "You 
are  always  saying  that  we  ought  to  trust  people  if  we 
want  them  to  trust  us,  and  yet  you  never  do  it." 

"Such  a  piece  of  foolhardiness  as  that  is  not  trusting 
people,"  he  answered,  severely.  "It  is  tempting  them. 
Give  the  ring  back  to  Bradley  the  first  time  you  see  him, 
and  never  put  it  on  your  finger  again." 

"Suppose  I  refuse?"  she  asked,  boldly. 

"I  don't  think  you  will,"  he  answered,  quietly,  and 
she  knew  that  she  would  not.  But  she  knew  also  that 
she  would  deceive  him,  and  she  left  the  room  with  a 
heart  full  of  rage. 

She  hid  the  ring  away  for  two  or  three  weeks.  Then, 
fired  with  a  new  idea,  she  took  it  to  Mrs.  Shipman  to 
effect  a  loan  on  it.  Tricky  and  suspicious  as  she  was 
herself,  she  never  overcame  a  fatuous  trust  in  others. 
When  Mrs.  Shipman  refused  to  make  the  loan,  without 
saying  just  why,  the  ring  again  went  into  hiding.  A 
week  later  Volley  suddenly  resolved  to  take  it  to  Chicago 

303 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

and  pawn  it.  How  to  forge  an  excuse  for  going  to  the 
city,  though,  without  weaving  a  web  of  lies  from  which 
even  she  shrank,  was  a  problem.  She  finally  decided 
on  a  bold  stroke,  and  one  day  at  dinner  calmly  informed 
Harvey  that  she  wanted  to  go  to  Chicago  to  do  a  little 
shopping.  Their  financial  condition  by  no  means  justi- 
fied such  an  expedition,  but  the  moment  was  skilfully 
chosen.  Immersed  in  thought  over  one  of  his  mechan- 
ical drawings,  Harvey  made  no  objection.  He  did  not 
even  ask  her  what  she  wanted  to  buy. 

She  was  surprised  to  see  Josephine  Priestley  at  the 
station  the  morning  she  left  for  the  city.  Without 
any  reason  for  the  manoeuvre  except  a  desire  to  avoid 
Josephine's  company,  she  managed  to  get  into  the  car 
unseen  by  the  other,  half  a  dozen  seats  behind  her. 

Volley  was  perfectly  familiar  with  the  city,  having 
spent  a  year  there  in  the  beginning  of  her  career,  be- 
fore she  went  to  Washington  as  a  congressional  prote'ge'e. 
She  made  her  way  directly  towards  the  lower  end  of 
State  Street,  where  she  knew  pawn-shops  flourished.  It 
chanced  that  for  three  or  four  blocks  after  leaving  the 
station  she  found  herself  still  behind  Josephine,  with- 
out having  made  any  effort  to  keep  there.  The  nervous, 
hesitant  manner  of  the  girl,  and  the  way  in  which  she 
scanned  the  signs  on  either  side  of  the  street,  attracted 
Volley's  attention;  but  it  was  not  until  Josephine  had 
accosted  a  policeman  that  the  elder  woman's  curiosity 
was  aroused. 

Without  going  out  of  her  way,  but  merely  changing 
her  route  a  little,  she  followed  Josephine  down  Adams 
Street  to  State,  and  south  on  State  for  a  number  of 
blocks.  The  young  woman  paused  under  the  three 
gilded  balls  of  a  pawnbroker,  glanced  guiltily  around, 
and  then  swiftly  entered  the  shop.  Volley,  advancing 
quickly  and  posting  herself  cautiously  at  the  very  edge 
of  the  window,  saw  Josephine  lay  a  little  bag  upon  the 

3°4 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

counter,  exchange  a  few  words  with  a  clerk,  and  then 
follow  him  back  to  a  little  apartment  in  the  rear.  Volley 
knew  by  experience  that  that  little  apartment  was  pro- 
vided for  the  privacy  of  genteel  patrons. 

She  waited  no  longer,  but  hurried  on  to  another  "loan- 
office,"  a  block  farther  south,  where  the  broker  at  once 
offered  to  advance  three  hundred  dollars  on  the  ring. 
Delighted  at  the  amount,  she  accepted  it  at  once. 
Emerging,  she  went  north  again,  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  street,  to  avoid  a  possible  meeting  with  Josephine, 
and  made  the  few  simple  purchases  she  had  ostensibly 
come  to  make.  To  these,  however,  she  added,  out  of 
her  own  money,  ribbons,  gloves,  laces,  handkerchiefs, 
hat  plumes,  and  underwear — all  of  them  things  which 
Harvey  would  never  see,  or,  seeing,  would  never  rec- 
ognize, manlike,  as  new.  Not  so  Bertha,  however.  She 
would  have  to  be  taken  into  the  secret,  and  the  best  way 
to  do  it  was  to  buy  her  something,  too. 

But  with  characteristic  selfishness  and  duplicity  she 
named  two  hundred  dollars  to  Bertha,  when  she  got 
home  and  confessed  all,  as  the  sum  she  had  obtained  for 
the  ring.  Bertha  looked  grave;  and  when  the  mother 
thrust  a  ten-dollar  bill  into  her  hand,  in  addition  to  the 
trinkets  she  had  brought  her,  and  told  her  to  keep  it  for 
pin-money,  Bertha  accepted  it  without  a  word  of  thanks. 
But  Volley  did  not  want  thanks  or  commendation  from 
her  daughter  —  only  secrecy,  and  this  she  knew  she 
would  now  get. 


XXXVIII 

JUST  what  to  do  with  her  knowledge  of  Miss  Priest- 
ley's clandestine  transaction  Volley  did  not  know; 
but  she  had  a  strong  conviction  that  she  ought  to  use  it 
in  some  way.  But  this  could  wait.  A  nearer  matter 
was  the  necessity  of  explaining  to  Hayford  the  disap- 
pearance of  the  ring  from  her  finger,  which  she  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  wearing  when  with  him. 

"  He  wouldn't  let  me  wear  it,  Bradley,"  said  she,  with 
fine  indignation,  "and  he  told  me  to  give  it  back.  He 
had  no  right  to  do  it,  and  I  will  not  give  it  back.  I  dare 
not  wear  it  now,  though,  even  with  you,  and  I  have 
laid  it  away.  But  some  day,  Bradley,"  she  added,  with 
a  flash  of  her  eyes,  "  I'll  wear  it — and  openly." 

Bradley  did  not  pursue  the  subject.  He  was  rather 
glad,  on  the  whole,  that  she  could  no  longer  wear  the 
ring.  Its  presence  on  her  finger  in  public  places  had 
already  created  talk  of  a  nature  which  he  did  not  relish. 
Moreover,  that  "some  day"  of  hers  gave  him  an  uncom- 
fortable turn.  Did  she  refer  to  the  dissolution  of  that 
poor  twisted  body  of  her  husband's,  or  merely  to  the 
dissolution  of  the  tie  which  bound  her  to  that  body? 
Either  interpretation  repelled  him.  His  superstitious 
nature  shrank  from  the  first;  and  from  the  second — well, 
he  had  often  boasted  that  he  was  not  a  "marrying  man," 
and  he  wondered  if  Volley  could  be  so  foolish  as  to  think 
he  wanted  to  marry  her  just  because  he  had  wanted  to 
kiss  her. 

Three  hundred  dollars  is  a  large  sum  for  a  woman  to 
306 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

spend  on  such  articles  of  apparel  as  her  husband  cannot 
detect.  After  buying  everything  that  she  could  think 
of  under  this  head,  Volley  still  had  about  two  hundred 
dollars  left.  Two  hundred  and  three  dollars  and  five 
cents  was  the  exact  amount,  and  she  had  a  great  desire 
to  lop  off  the  odd  figures  and  make  the  sum  even  money. 
She  disposed  of  the  five  cents  by  buying  a  glass  of  soda- 
water  at  Grant's  (she  never  bought  of  Tom  Feversham). 
As  she  sipped  the  drink,  her  roving  eyes  fell  upon  two 
neat  books  in  a  box,  labelled  John  of  Barneveld.  At  the 
same  instant  she  had  one  of  the  greatest  inspirations 
of  her  life. 

"Charlie,  you're  a  reader,"  said  she,  familiarly,  to  the 
clerk.  "Are  those  good  books?" 

"  For  those  that  like  them.  I  don't  fancy  they  would 
interest  you." 

"Is  it  a  novel?" 

"  No — biography." 

"  I  didn't  want  it  if  it  was  a  novel.  My  husband  has 
bought  lots  of  books  through  Mr.  Grant,  Charlie.  Do 
you  know  whether  he  has  these  in  his  library?" 

"I  don't  think  so.  He  has  the  companion  volumes, 
though — the  Dutch  Republic  and  United  Netherlands." 

"Then  he  would  probably  like  these,  wouldn't  he?" 
she  asked,  enthusiastically.  Her  inspiration  was  turn- 
ing out  even  better  than  she  had  expected. 

"I  haven't  a  doubt  of  it." 

"How  much  are  they  worth?" 

"Three  dollars  and  a  half." 

She  sipped  her  drink  tentatively  for  a  moment. 

"Isn't  that  pretty  high?"  she  asked,  cajolingly. 

"  They  were  originally  five  dollars,"  answered  the  young 
man.  "  But  we  have  had  them  on  hand  for  some  time." 

She  finished  her  drink,  arose,  coquetted  a  moment 
before  the  glass  in  the  fountain,  and  then  picked  up  her 
purse. 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Three  dollars  is  my  limit  to-day,  Charlie.  Show 
me  something  for  three." 

The  clerk  hesitated.  "I  don't  believe  we  have  any- 
thing in  stock  that  Harvey  would  care  for  except  these. 
He  has  looked  our  stock  over  a  good  many  times.  I'll 
make  these  three,  Mrs.  Congreve,  but  I  want  to  tell  you 
that  we  lose  money  on  them  at  that  figure." 

"Very  well,"  said  she,  with  a  triumphant  gleam  in  her 
eye. 

She  carried  the  books  home  and  laid  them  on  the 
table  before  her  husband.  They  were  the  first  books 
she  had  bought  him  in  years,  and  his  amazement  was 
natural  enough.  But  when  he  glanced  at  the  titles,  and 
she  said,  in  a  wifely  tone,  "  They'll  complete  your  set, 
dear,"  his  heart  overflowed.  Her  face  was  near,  and 
he  kissed  her  fervently.  But  what  astonished  him  most 
and  kept  him  whistling  softly  the  rest  of  the  day  was 
that  she  should  have  known  that  he  had  any  of  Motley's 
works  at  all,  much  less  to  think  of  completing  the  set. 
Verily,  a  woman  saw  much  of  which  she  said  little. 

Volley's  money,  tucked  away  in  a  glove-box,  con- 
tinued to  worry  her,  however,  evened  up  though  it  was, 
and  by  such  a  commendable  process ;  not  because  it  was 
in  danger,  but  because  it  was  idle  and  useless.  Glancing 
over  the  city  paper  one  day,  she  suddenly  conceived  a 
brilliant  plan ;  and,  hurrying  into  a  street  gown,  she  walk- 
ed swiftly  to  Davenport's  office. 

"  Morris,  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  favor,"  said  she,  after 
carefully  closing  the  door  between  the  two  rooms.  "  Will 
you?" 

"Let's  hear  it  first." 

"Well,"  said  she,  with  the  least  nervousness,  "  I  have 
a  hundred  dollars  that  I  don't  need  just  at  present.  I 
want  you  to  take  it  and  invest  it  for  me  in  wheat  and 
corn  margins  on  the  Board  of  Trade.  I  can't  do  it  my- 
self, because  I  should  have  to  buy  drafts,  and  every- 

308 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

body  in  the  bank  would  wonder  where  I  got  the  money 
from." 

"That  is  just  what  I  am  wondering,"  said  he,  calmly. 

"I  don't  suppose  you  would  believe  me  if  I  told  you 
it  was  a  part  of  father's  estate  that  has  been  tied  up 
until  now."  This  was  merely  a  feeler. 

"  No,  because  I  happen  to  know  that  your  father's  es- 
tate was  settled  up  long  ago." 

"Nevertheless,  it  is,"  she  insisted,  but  laughing  guilt- 
ily, for  she  had  no  real  hope  of  deceiving  him. 

"Don't  be  foolish,"  said  he. 

"  If  I  tell  you  where  I  got  it,  Morris,  will  you  promise 
to  buy  the  margins  for  me?" 

"No.  I  know  where  you  got  it  without  being  told. 
You  have  pawned  or  sold  that  ring  Bradley  Hay  ford 
gave  you." 

"How  do  you  know  he  gave  me  a  ring?"  she  asked, 
brazenly. 

"Several  people  know  it,"  he  observed,  dryly.  "I 
have  heard  it  mentioned  in  half  a  dozen  quarters,  I  sup- 
pose. How  long  did  you  think  you  could  flash  a  stone 
of  that  size  in  the  faces  of  Tidd's  clerks  without  creating 
talk?  Why  did  you  accept  such  a  present  from  that 
man?" 

"Because  I  wanted  the  ring,  I  suppose,"  said  she, 
stubbornly.  "I  had  a  right  to  accept  it." 

He  did  not  attempt  to  argue  the  matter ;  he  knew  the 
futility  of  that  too  well. 

"Does  Harvey  know  about  it?" 

"No." 

"Does  Hayford  know  you  have  sold  it?" 

"No.     He  won't,  either,  unless  you  tell  him." 

"I  sha'n't  tell  him  or  anybody  else.  I  should  advise 
you,  though,  to  take  your  money  and  redeem  the  ring, 
give  it  back  to  Hayford,  and  make  a  clean  breast  of  the 
matter  to  Harvey." 

3°9 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"I  can't  do  it.     I  have  spent  part  of  the  money." 

"Then  don't  gamble  the  rest  of  it  away  on  wheat  or 
corn.  Buy  clothes.  You  say  you  need  them." 

"  I  can't  do  that,  either.  Harvey  would  want  to  know 
where  the  money  came  from." 

"What  would  you  do  with  any  money,  then,  that  you 
might  win  by  speculating?" 

"If  I  won  a  good  deal,  he  would  forgive  me." 

"You  have  lived  all  these  years  with  Harvey  to  small 
advantage  if  you  think  you  could  buy  him  off  in  that 
way,"  he  answered,  dryly.  "  Did  you  dispose  of  the  ring 
in  the  city?"  He  knew  she  had  been  to  Chicago. 

"Yes." 

"In  a  pawnshop?" 

"Yes." 

"Didn't  you  feel  just  a  little  bit  ashamed  when  you 
entered  such  a  place?" 

Her  eyes  flashed  maliciously. 

"No  more  so,  I  fancy,  than  another  woman  whom 
I  saw  enter  another  shop  about  the  same  time,"  she 
answered,  knowingly. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

But  before  she  answered  he  knew,  by  some  divination, 
where  Josephine  Priestley's  interest  money  had  come 
from,  and  where  the  rings  on  her  fingers  had  gone. 
With  the  knowledge  came  a  biting  regret,  a  fierce  shame, 
at  his  unworthy  suspicions  on  the  very  day  she  had 
brought  him  the  fruits  of  her  sacrifice.  But  there  was 
no  time  to  indulge  these  emotions  now,  for  the  gray 
eyes  of  the  woman  before  him  were  watching  him  curi- 
ously. 

"  Have  you  told  any  one  else  of  this?"  he  asked,  when 
he  had  drawn  the  story  from  her. 

"No." 

"Then  don't,  as  you  value  my  forbearance.  Don't 
tell  it  to  Bertha  or  Harvey  or  any  one  else,  and,  above 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

» 

all,  not  to  Miss  Priestley  herself.  I  have  forgiven  a  good 
many  breaches  of  faith  in  you,  Volley,  but  if  you  betray 
me  in  this  I  shall  be  merciless.  This  involves  the  pride 
and  happiness  of  an  innocent  woman." 

The  faithless  woman  trembled  at  thought  of  fanning 
into  flame  that  which  smouldered  in  his  eyes.  But  she 
kept  up  a  show  of  indifference. 

"  You  needn't  be  so  fierce  about  it.  I  have  no  motive 
to  tell  any  one  about  her.  Besides,"  she  added,  with 
an  unpleasant  laugh,  "she  hasn't  committed  a  crime, 
though  one  would  think  so  from  your  talk." 

"Crime!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  should  say  she  hadn't. 
When  that  girl  throttled  her  pride  and  took  her  keep- 
sakes into  that  pawnshop  and  gave  them  up  to  save  her 
credit  she  was  doing  one  of  the  noblest  acts  of  her  life." 

"  But  when  I  did  the  same,"  exclaimed  Volley,  in  a 
gust  of  passion,  "and  laid  down  a  ring  that  was  as 
rightfully  mine  as  those  were  hers,  and  did  it  because  I 
needed  clothes,  I  was  doing  a  shameful  thing,  according 
to  you.  It  all  depends,  Morris  Davenport,  on  whose  ox 
is  being  gored." 

He  made  no  reply,  and  she  flung  herself  out  of  the 
room.  He  walked  the  floor  for  half  an  hour,  but  found 
no  opening  for  his  new  knowledge,  so  far  as  his  relations 
with  Josephine  were  concerned. 

"All  that  I  can  do,"  he  concluded,  bitterly,  "is  to 
curse  that  unlucky  hour  and  wait  for  her  forgiveness. 
The  poor  little  girl!  She  pawned  her  rings,  and  I  ac- 
cused her  of  accepting  a  favor  from  another  man  that 
she  would  not  accept  from  me.  And  I  am  the  man  she 
loves!  By  the  eternal,  I  will  make  a  rich,  a  noble,  a 
complete  reparation  for  that  injustice  of  mine!" 


XXXIX 

A  WEEK  later  Bertha  calmly  announced  at  the  sup- 
per-table that  she  had  resigned  her  position.  Har- 
vey looked  up  in  astonishment,  and  Volley  tightened 
her  grip  on  the  tea-pot  handle. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  then — starve?"  she  asked, 
roughly. 

"I  am  not,"  answered  Bertha,  with  dignity.  "I  am 
going  to  work  for  Mr.  Collie.  I  am  going  to  be  his 
cashier,  and  I  sha'n't  have  to  work  half  as  hard  as  I 
do  now." 

"And  sha'n't  get  half  as  much  pay,  very  likely,"  add- 
ed Volley,  caustically. 

"How  much  will  he  pay  you,  daughter?"  asked 
Harvey. 

"Six  dollars  a  week  to  begin  with,  and  as  soon  as  I 
learn  to  keep  the  books  he  will  pay  me  as  much  as  I  am 
getting  now,  I  think." 

"You  think,"  interposed  the  mother,  sceptically. 
"Did  he  say  so?" 

"  He  said  I  should  lose  nothing  by  the  change.  You 
needn't  have  any  fear  of  his  not  doing  the  right  thing," 
she  continued,  confidently.  "I  know  him  pretty  well, 
and  I  know  that  what  he  promises  me  he  will  do.  But 
if  he  never  paid  me  more  than  six  dollars,  I  should  go 
just  the  same.  I  simply  can't  stand  the  work  in  Morris's 
office  any  longer.  I  am  so  tired  at  night  that  I  haven't 
enough  life  left  to  change  my  clothes." 

"Then  we  are  glad  that  you  have  resigned,  my  dear," 
312 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

said  Harvey.  "We  don't  want  you  to  work  too  hard. 
You  are  a  good  little  girl  to  give  up  all  your  wages  so 
uncomplainingly,  and  I  don't  know  what  we  should  have 
done  without  you." 

"Thank  you,  papa,"  said  she,  soberly. 

At  the  same  time  her  pretty  face  faintly  glowed  with 
triumph.  She  had  braced  herself  for  a  storm,  and  lo! 
her  resignation  had  stirred  only  a  zephyr.  She  did  not 
know  the  source  of  that  zephyr,  or  that  her  father  was 
secretly  glad  to  have  her  out  of  Davenport's  office,  even 
at  a  pecuniary  loss. 

Yet  Harvey  would  sooner  have  had  her  installed  al- 
most anywhere  else  than  in  Collie's  store.  Mr.  Collie, 
who  had  met  Bertha  in  Davenport's  office,  had  called 
at  the  house  several  times  to  see  her,  with  his  plush  vest, 
soiled  linen,  untrimmed  nails,  and  all.  In  addition,  he 
usually  brought  an  overpowering  odor  of  poor  cigars, 
and  occasionally  a  whiff  of  something  stronger  on  his 
breath.  He  explained  quite  candidly  to  Mr.  Congreve, 
in  his  easy,  off-hand  way,  that  he  occasionally  took  a 
drink  with  his  customers  from  the  country,  simply  as 
a  matter  of  business ;  that  he  had  never  been  under  the 
influence  of  liquor  in  his  life,  and  never  expected  to  be. 
It  was  not  good  business.  Besides,  his  stomach  wouldn't 
stand  it.  As  to  his  conscience,  he  did  not  say. 

Harvey  did  not  doubt  Collie's  word.  In  fact,  the 
young  man  had  a  peculiarly  winning  sincerity.  Yet 
Harvey  disliked  him.  He  disliked  his  endless  talk 
about  "trade."  He  disliked  the  bent  knee  and  bowed 
head  with  which,  in  his  fancy,  the  little  man  always 
breathed  the  sacred  name  of  Business.  For  here  was 
a  man  whose  every  thought  and  deed,  every  moment, 
every  energy,  was  for  business.  "Yours  for  business" 
he  had  signed  his  posters,  and  sincerer  subscription  was 
never  penned. 

That  there  "were  such  things  in  the  world  as  literature 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

and  art,  history  and  beauty,  Collie  seemed  never  to  have 
discovered;  and  it  was  a  constant  wonder,  a  miracle,  to 
Congreve  that  a  man  so  set  and  solidified  in  the  clay  of 
materialism  should  be  so  just,  scrupulous,  and  sincere. 
Where  did  he  get  it?  When  Collie  once  said,  with  a 
graceful  flourish  of  his  small,  not  over-clean  hand:  "Mr. 
Congreve,  honesty  is  the  best  policy.  If  you  want  to 
build  up  a  trade  that  will  stand  the  test  of  time,  give 
a  man  a  dollar's  worth  of  goods  for  a  dollar's  worth  of 
money,  and  give  it  to  him  every  time" — when  Collie  said 
this  Congreve  felt  as  if  he  were  listening  to  a  man  who 
had  scaled  the  very  summit  of  the  Mountain  of  Truth, 
and  he  murmured  to  himself,  marvelling:  "That  man 
never  read  a  chapter  of  philosophy  in  his  life.  Emerson, 
Montaigne,  Carlyle  would  be  gibberish  to  him.  Where 
did  he  find  that  out?" 

In  spite  of  these  qualities  of  Collie's,  however,  Harvey 
feared  the  influence  of  the  man  upon  Bertha.  She  was 
as  sensitive  to  impressions  as  wax.  She  had  not  been 
in  Davenport's  office  a  week  before  she  was  aping  his 
mannerisms  and  quoting  his  philosophy  of  life.  She 
would  probably  do  the  same  with  Collie.  He  would 
probably  deepen  that  vein  of  materialism  which  Harvey 
had  already  discovered  in  her,  and  would  strengthen  her 
sense  of  cold,  strict  justice  without  tempering  it  with 
sweet  charity.  But  what  could  he  do?  These  objec- 
tions would  be  unintelligible  to  Bertha.  Besides,  Collie's 
was  the  only  position  open,  and  they  had  to  live. 

"Hope  you  don't  feel  cut  up,  Davenport,  over  my 
taking  your  girl  away,"  said  Mr.  Collie  the  following 
day,  on  the  street,  as  he  blew  into  Davenport's  face  a 
cloud  of  tobacco-smoke  that  almost  gagged  him,  sea- 
soned smoker  though  he  was.  "I  made  her  a  proposi- 
tion and  she  accepted  it.  I  told  her  she  would  have  to 
give  you  a  week's  notice.  If  that  ain't  enough,  I'll 

3U 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

allow  you  three  days  more.  I  sha'n't  pay  her  as  much 
at  first  as  you  did.  I  can't  afford  it.  She  ain't  worth 
it.  But  as  soon  as  she  can  take  care  of  the  books,  her 
salary  goes  to  ten  a  week.  Drop  into  my  place  some 
time,  Davenport.  No  obligation  to  buy.  But  if  you 
should  want  something,  you  will  find  a  clerk  on  the 
other  side  of  the  counter  by  the  time  you  have  reached 
your  side  of  it.  No  waits!  Drive  up  to  the  curb-stone 
and  look  in,  and  a  clerk  will  be  out  before  you  can 
holler.  They've  got  instructions  to  watch  the  street. 
Buy  a  spool  of  thread  and  tender  a  twenty-dollar  bill. 
You'll  get  your  change  in  twenty  seconds.  Customers 
don't  like  to  wait  or  apologize  for  big  money.  You'll 
find  my  store  warm  in  winter  and  cool  in  summer. 
Women  can't  shop  with  cold  feet  or  when  they're 
sweatin'.  They  may  not  know  what's  the  matter,  but 
they'll  prefer  to  trade  somewhere  else." 

Mr.  Collie  was  not  voluble,  strictly  speaking  —  that 
is,  he  did  not  talk  fast,  or  wedge  his  words  in  when 
others  wanted  to  talk,  but  he  could  run  along  in 
a  smooth,  effortless  way  like  this  by  the  hour,  as 
long  as  the  theme  was  his  store  or  business  in  gen- 
eral. 

Had  Davenport  wanted  to  retain  Bertha,  he  might 
have  felt  provoked  over  the  manner  in  which  Collie  had 
got  her.  As  it  was,  however,  he  felt  like  slapping  the 
little  wizard  of  dry-goods  upon  his  narrow  back  and 
thanking  him  for  his  kindness.  Instead,  though,  he 
took  him  into  Feversham's  and  bought  him  a  cigar, 
ostensibly  to  show  that  there  was  no  hard  feeling,  but 
possibly  to  induce  him  to  throw  away  the  vile  weed  in 
his  mouth.  Mr.  Collie,  though,  slipped  the  fresh  cigar 
into  an  upper  pocket  of  his  plush  vest  with  a  tranquil 
"After  dinner,  Davenport,"  and  contimied  to  poison 
the  air  around  him  with  the  black,  soggy  stump  of  his 
own  cigar. 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Bertha's  future  boss,"  said  Davenport  to  Fever- 
sham,  after  Collie  had  gone. 

"So  I  heard  last  night.     'His  for  business,'  eh?" 

"His  for  business,"  repeated  Davenport,  laughing. 

"  I  hope  it's  nothing  more.  The  little  lad  had  her  out 
riding  last  Sunday." 

"So  I  heard.  I  don't  think  there  was  any  sentiment 
about  it.  I  think  he  was  probably  just  completing  the 
present  arrangement." 

"Possibly.  Yet  it  is  well  to  remember,  with  all  due 
respect,  that  Bertha  is  a  fool.  She  proved  that  by  fall- 
ing in  love  with  you.  Now  I  have  an  idea,  Morris,  that 
Bertha  spent  the  lovely  hours  of  last  Sunday  afternoon 
in  telling  Mr  Collie  all  about  her  love  for  you.  And 
if  •!  am  not  mistaken,  she  told  him  how  your  subse- 
quent cruelty  had  killed  that  love.  It  would  be  es- 
sential for  him  to  know  that  her  love  was  dead,"  he 
added,  dryly. 

"I  could  believe  a  part  of  that,  Tom,  if  it  were  any- 
body but  Collie,"  answered  Davenport.  "  Did  you  ever 
notice  his  nails?" 

Feversham's  words  tempered  his  elation  somewhat 
over  Bertha's  removal,  and  it  was  tempered  still  further 
by  a  talk  with  Harvey  that  afternoon.  The  father's 
anxiety  weighed  upon  Morris,  and  made  him  feel,  in  a 
sense,  still  responsible  for  the  girl's  welfare. 

"I  have  not  urged  Bertha  to  stay  with  you,  Morris," 
said  Congreve.  "You  can  guess  why,  I  fancy." 

"Yes,"  answered  Davenport,  with  that  steady  look 
which,  between  honest  men,  is  better  than  bonds. 

"And  you  have  not  urged  her  to  stay?" 

"No."' 

This  was  all  that  passed  between  them  on  that  delicate 
feature  of  the  subject. 

The  next  day  Davenport  received  a  note  from  Jose- 
phine. "Her  forgiveness!"  he  thought,  with  a  smile. 

316 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

But  his  face  darkened  as  he  read.     This  also  was  about 
Bertha's  resignation. 

"DEAR  MORRIS, — I  have  just  heard  of  Bertha's  leaving 
you.  I  take  it  for  granted  that  she  goes  voluntarily,  for  I 
know  that  you  would  never  discharge  her  or  force  her  out. 
At  first  I  was  glad,  but  since  thinking  it  over  carefully  I 
should  feel  better,  I  believe,  if  she.  did  not  go.  I  feel, 
somehow,  as  though  our  relations  had  forced  her  out,  and 
that  other  people  will  feel  the  same  way.  Would  it  be  too 
much  for  me  to  ask  you  to  try  to  induce  her  to  remain? 
I  know  that  it  is  none  of  my  business,  and  that  I  am  taking 
a  liberty  in  making  such  a  request ;  but  I  am  so  sure  that 
it  would  be  for  the  best  all  around  that  I  lay  these  con- 
siderations aside.  Faithfully, 

"JOSEPHINE." 

Davenport  frowned  over  the  epistle  until  the  thought 
of  Josephine's  pawned  jewels  recurred  to  him;  then  the 
frown  vanished.  Nevertheless,  the  note  which  he  rap- 
idly penned  to  her  contained  only  two  sentences: 

"It  seems  to  me  it  would  be  as  blameworthy  to  urge 
Bertha  to  stay,  from  a  personal  motive,  as  it  would  be  to 
discharge  her  from  the  same  kind  of  a  motive.  She  wants 
to  go,  because  she  thinks  best,  and  I  cannot  stop  her." 

The  note  brought  a  flush  to  Josephine's  cheek.  Its 
very  brevity  was  rebuking.  She  felt  that  he,  as  usual, 
was  right,  and  she  accused  herself  of  selfishness  and 
cowardice.  Indeed,  she  wondered  if  she  had  not  been 
influenced  in  this  whole  affair  as  much  by  a  fear  of 
public  condemnation  as  by  a  desire  to  do  Bertha  no 
wrong.  If  she  had,  she  should  hate  herself  for  it. 


XL 

SHE  had  little  time,  though,  that  day  for  repining. 
Victoria  had  been  complaining  for  several  days  of 
lassitude  and  pains  throughout  her  body.  About  eleven 
o'clock  she  came  in  from  the  kitchen  and  lay  down  on 
the  couch,  and  confessed  her  inability  to  get  dinner. 
When  Victoria  gave  up,  something  was  wrong.  In  the 
morning,  sure  enough,  she  had  fever,  and  Josephine 
promptly  called  Dr.  Burney.  After  looking  at  the 
patient's  tongue  and  feeling  her  pulse,  he  pronounced 
her  trouble  malaria. 

Not  quite  satisfied  with  some  of  her  symptoms, 
though,  he  said  he  would  call  again  the  next  morning. 
By  evening  she  was  much  worse,  and  spent  a  bad  night. 
Josephine  counted  the  hours  until  the  first  streak  of  gray 
light,  and  then  sent  Campeau  for  the  doctor.  The  old 
man  came  at  once,  and  after  hemming  and  hawing  for 
some  time  changed  Victoria's  malady  from  malaria  to 
typhoid  fever. 

He  and  Josephine  were  in  the  down-stairs  hall  when 
he  told  her.  Josephine  turned  faint  and  leaned  against 
the  wall  for  support. 

"Now  don't  get  alarmed,  my  dear  Miss  Priestley — 
don't  get  alarmed.  It  is  only  a  light  attack,"  said  the 
old  man,  with  professional  mendacity.  "Everything 
is  in  her  favor — youth,  health,  prompt  attention,  and 
every  facility  for  good  care.  If  I  were  you,  I  shouldn't 
worry  a  bit.  But  typhoid  is  a  stubborn  thing,  and 
she'll  be  in  bed  fqr  two  or  three  weeks."  (He  knew  it 

318 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

would  likely  be  five  or  six.)  "She'll  need  a  nurse,  and 
I'll  send  one  right  around — Mrs.  Brannigan.  She's  good 
at  preparing  delicacies,  too,  and  handy  about  the  house." 

"But  people  that  are  only  a  little  sick  may  die,"  said 
Josephine,  fearfully. 

"So  may  people  that  are  perfectly  well.  But  you 
don't  keep  worrying  about  it,  do  you?" 

"She's  the  last  one  left  me,  doctor.  If  she  should 
dje— " 

"Don't  use  that  word  again,"  said  the  old  man,  pater- 
nally. "She  is  not  going  to  die — I  pledge  you  my  pro- 
fessional word — and  you  mustn't  talk  about  it.  You 
must  keep  a  cheerful  face  whenever  you  go  near  her,  and 
Mrs.  Brannigan  and  I  will  do  the  rest." 

Mrs.  Brannigan  arrived  in  less  than  an  hour,  with  a 
bundle  of  clothes,  and  cheerily  announced  herself  pre- 
pared to  stay  indefinitely.  Josephine  felt  better  at  once. 
Courage  and  hope  emanated  from  the  buxom,  full- 
breasted  Irishwoman.  The  next  fifteen  minutes  brought 
in  three  neighbors  who  had  seen  Mrs.  Brannigan  come, 
and  had  guessed  the  sinister  purport  of  her  visit.  Old 
Mrs.  Betts  arrived  five  minutes  later.  Then,  about 
eleven  o'clock,  Mrs.  Bowman  came,  and  Josephine  had 
a  little  cry  on  her  shoulder. 

"Cry  all  you  want  to,  my  dear,"  said  Alice.  "It  will 
do  you  good.  Arthur  says  a  woman's  eyes  are  her 
safety-valve,  and  I  don't  know  but  he's  right,  although  I 
never  admit  it  to  him.  But  I  want  to  see,  dear,  what 
you  are  going  to  have  for  dinner.  You  don't  know  any 
more  about  cooking,  I  fancy,  than  a  six-year-old  child.'' 

They  went  back  to  the  kitchen,  Alice  sniffing  crit- 
ically. She  turned  over  a  steak  which  lay  on  a  plate 
and  pronounced  it  a  fairly  good  cut.  She  peeped  into 
the  oven  where  some  potatoes  were  baking,  and,  kneel- 
ing, tried  them  with  a  fork.  She  suddenly  straightened 
up. 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Josephine  Priestley,  you  haven't  attempted  a  pie!" 

Josephine  nodded,  guiltily. 

"What  kind?" 

"Cherry." 

"Your  first?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  you  are  brave,  when  one  considers  that  it's 
for  yourself.  I  have  half  a  notion  to  stay  for  dinner, 
just  to  see  how  it  comes  out." 

But  she  did  not,  in  spite  of  Josephine's  entreaties, 
pleading  that  Mr.  Bowman  hated  to  eat  alone  or  with 
only  David,  though  he  sometimes  did  not  speak  ten 
words  at  a  meal. 

The  afternoon  passed  more  slowly.  Three  pupils  were 
turned  away,  and  Josephine  told  them  that  she  did  not 
know  when  they  could  resume  their  lessons.  About 
half -past  three  a  gentle  knock,  instead  of  the  vain 
thumping  of  the  muffled  bell,  announced  another  visitor 
— evidently  some  one  who  knew  there  was  sickness  in 
the  house.  Josephine  opened  the  door  and  saw  Morris 
Davenport.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  called  in  six 
weeks,  or  since  their  agreement. 

He  stepped  in  without  waiting  for  her  confused  in- 
vitation, hung  up  his  hat,  and  walked  into  the  parlor. 

"You've  heard?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.     Old  Burney  told  me." 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment  with  lively  and  conflict- 
ing emotions. 

"It  was  so  good  of  you,  Morris,  to  come  in  my 
trouble,  but — "  she  began,  and  paused. 

"But  what?"  he  asked,  smiling. 

"  But  ought  you  to  have  done  it?  Isn't  it  a — a  viola- 
tion of  our  agreement?"  Reproof  was  perhaps  never 
more  softly  spoken. 

"Yes.  And  so  would  my  coming  here  to  carry  you 
out  of  a  burning  house  have  been.  Did  you  suppose 

320 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

that  I  could  leave  you  to  weather  a  storm  like  this 
alone?" 

"I  am  not  quite  alone,"  she  smiled. 

"I  really  have  a  good  excuse  for  coming.  I  knew 
there  was  no  one  here  to  do  anything,  so  I  took  it  upon 
myself — now  don't  be  startled — to  telegraph  to  Chicago 
for  a  trained  nurse.  She  will  probably  arrive  on  the 
6.30.  That  doesn't  mean  that  Victoria  is  in  danger, 
or  any  sicker  than  you  thought.  It  was  my  idea,  not 
Burney's.  It  simply  means  that  I  thought  a  trained 
nurse  could  take  better  care  of  her  than  Mrs.  Branni- 
gan.  There's  everything  in  nursing,  with  typhoid.  Mrs. 
Brannigan  can  go  into  the  kitchen,  and  also  serve  as  a 
relief  for  the  nurse,  and  you  can  keep  right  on  with 
your  pupils.  Most  of  them  have  pianos,  doubtless,  and 
you  can  give  them  lessons  at  their  homes.  Those  that 
haven't  pianos  you  can  take  to  Mother  Shipman's.  She 
has  not  only  said  that  you  might,  but  has  insisted 
upon  it." 

Josephine  sank  rather  than  sat  upon  a  chair. 

"Morris,  you  are  good!"  said  she,  fervently. 

"No,  no,"  said  he,  hastily.  "Any  one  else  would 
have  done  the  same."  Then,  after  an  instant,  he  add- 
ed, "No  man  can  be  called  good  for  serving  the  woman 
he  loves." 

She  fought  back  the  joy  that  leaped  to  her  eyes. 

"So  soon,  Morris!"  said  she,  as  reproachfully  as  she 
could. 

"Yes,  so  soon.     I  couldn't  help  it." 

"  But  I  told  you  that  you  mustn't  love  me  any  more," 
said  she,  faintly. 

"Old  King  Canute  told  the  tide  it  mustn't  come  in 
any  more." 

He  sat  down  by  her.  The  male  in  him  was  strong. 
Conquest  was  sweet,  not  only  for  its  fruits  but  for  it- 
self. The  blood  was  bounding  through  his  veins,  and 
21  321 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

he  chafed  to  take  what  he  believed  of  right  his  own — 
what  he  knew  she  would  so  willingly  give  except  for 
conscience.  But  he  did  not  touch  her.  It  would  have 
looked  too  much  like  claiming  a  reward.  Besides,  her 
face  was  grave,  and  he  knew  her  thoughts  had  left  him 
momentarily. 

"It  seems  like  a  strange,  even  a  selfish,  thing  to  say 
at  this  moment,  when  my  sister  lies  so  sick,"  said  she, 
anxiously,  "but  I  don't  know  how  I  am  ever  to  pay  for 
all  this.  I — we  are  very  poor.  I  think  you  are  the 
only  person  on  earth  I  could  confess  it  to." 

"  Who  on  earth  has  as  good  a  right  to  hear  such  a  con- 
fession as  I?" 

As  he  glanced  at  her  hand,  so  white  against  her  black 
skirt,  he  noticed  the  circles  her  rings  had  left.  The 
fingers  were  twitching,  too,  and  the  wave  of  tenderness 
which  had  been  forming  in  his  breast  suddenly  rose  to 
his  throat.  It  was  a  critical  moment,  but  he  controlled 
himself. 

"You  sh'all  pay  for  it  all  yourself,"  said  he.  "But 
you  shall  have  all  the  time  you  want.  That  is  all  I  ask 
you  to  let  me  do — give  me  the  privilege  of  seeing  that 
you  have  the  time." 

"I  think  you  are  sure  of  that  privilege,"  she  mur- 
mured, mournfully.  "I  don't  see  how  I  could  with- 
hold it  if  I  would." 

"Would  you,  if  you  could?" 

Their  eyes  met,  and  restraint  was  at  an  end. 

"Oh,  Morris!"  she  gasped,  helplessly,  and  half  leaned, 
half  fell,  upon  him. 

As  she  sank  against  his  shoulder  he  slipped  his  arm 
around  her.  At  the  same  time  he  kissed  her — not  once, 
but  many  times,  quickly  and  passionately,  like  a  man 
from  whom  the  sweets  of  love  have  long  been  withheld. 
She  let  him  have  his  way. 

"Dear,  this  is  a  guilty  love  of  ours,"  said  she,  at  last. 
322 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

He  made  no  answer. 

"I  am  so  weak,"  she  continued, plaintively. 

Still  no  answer. 

"  But  I  blame  you,  dear,  this  time.  You  looked  at  me 
so  strangely — and  you  were  so  close — and  you  snatched 
my  heart  away  before  I  knew  it.  You  don't  have  any 
mercy,  and  you  know  I'm  weak." 

"Don't  call  yourself  weak,  Josephine,"  said  he,  in  a 
low  voice.  "If  you  are  weak,  all  womankind  is  weak." 
He  bent  his  head  and  kissed  her  again,  and  for  a  moment 
the  moist  red  lips  were  still. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  can  feel  as  I  do  about  this,"  she 
began  again.  "I  don't  believe  any  man  could.  If  I 
said  that  I  would  marry  you,  you  wouldn't  hesitate  an 
instant.  You  wouldn't  have  a  single  scruple." 

He  smiled,  but  said  nothing. 

"Would  you?"  she  asked. 

"Would  I  what?     Have  a  scruple?" 

"No.  Would  you  marry  me?" 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised." 

"You  would  be  willing  to  leave  the  responsibility  all 
to  me?" 

"Yes." 

"And  your  conscience,  too?" 

"I  don't  think  I  could  leave  it  in  better  hands." 

"  That's  the  way  you  men  saddle  us  women  with  our- 
dens.  You  are  willing  to  go  as  far  as  we  will,  because 
you  believe  that  we  won't  go  too  far.  That's  the  reason 
a  bad  woman  does  so  much  harm." 

Another  silence  followed,  but  he  could  see  that  her 
brain  was  busy. 

"Maybe  you  think  that  I  am  willing  to  marry  you," 
said  she,  as  if  struck  by  a  new  thought,  looking  up  into 
his  eyes  solicitously.  "Maybe  you  think  that  that  is 
what  this  means." 

"No,  I  don't  think  that,"  said  he,  quietly. 

323 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Because  it  means  just  the  opposite." 

"How  is  that?" 

"It  means  that  what  I  cannot  have  lawfully,  accord- 
ing to  my  heart,  I  am  taking  unlawfully — and  my  dear 
sister  sick  up-stairs." 

He  saw  that  she  was  unstrung. 

"Don't  talk  that  way,  my  dear,"  said  he,  soothingly. 
"  It  isn't  true." 

"It  is  true,"  said  she,  intensely.  "That  is  just  the 
shameless  point  I  have  reached  with  you.  If  any  one 
had  ever  told  me,  Morris  Davenport,  that  some  day  I 
should  let  a  man  to  whom  I  was  not  even  engaged  kiss 
me,  not  once,  but  many  times,  I  should  have  told  that 
person  that  he  lied.  And  now  I've  done  it."  She  cov- 
ered her  burning  face  with  her  hands.  "Ah,  Morris, 
you  have  pulled  me  down!" 

Morris  looked  at  her  with  eyes  of  pain.  Nothing  she 
could  have  said,  perhaps,  would  have  hurt  him  more. 

"I  deny,  Josephine,  that  you  have  done  anything 
wrong,"  said  he,  emphatically. 

"I  have  done  what  /  think  is  wrong,  and  what  you 
knew  I  thought  was  wrong." 

She  withdrew  herself,  and  he  arose  and  began  to  walk 
the  floor  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  as  he  had  a  habit 
of  doing  in  his  office. 

"This  is  where  it  always  ends,"  said  he,  sorrowfully. 
"  I  came  up  here  to-day  full  of  the  joy  of  a  good  deed, 
bringing  you  news  that  I  knew  would  ease  your  anxiety. 
I  freely  violated  my  promise  about  coming  because  I 
had  put  myself  clear  out  of  sight  in  the  background. 
Nothing  was  further  from  my  mind  than  what  has  just 
occurred.  Indeed,  I  was  intent  on  showing  you  that  I 
could  come  and  behave  myself.  I  wanted  to  show  you 
that  I  was  not  a  boy  who  had  to  be  bound  by  rules  and 
regulations.  Yet  here  we  are  again,  with  regret  and  cha.~ 
grin  gnawing  us,  like  rats  around  a  cheese." 

324 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Do  you  know  why  it  is?"  she  asked,  sadly. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't." 

"Because  sin  always  ends  in  shame  and  regret." 

"I  can't  stand  that  word  'sin,'  Josephine — not  when 
it  includes  you,"  said  he,  vigorously.  "  Please  don't  use 
it  again." 

She  smiled  maternally  at  his  broad  back  as  he  paced 
down  the  room  again. 

"Let  us  call  it  remissness,  then,  or  error,"  she  sug- 
gested. 

"That's  better." 

"It  is  hard  on  you,  Morris,  when  you  came  up  here 
feeling  so  good  and  unselfish,  to  have  it  all  end  this 
way.  I  am  so  grateful  to  you,  too.  I  didn't  want  to 
make  you  unhappy,"  said  she,  sweetly. 

"Oh,  I  am  not  blaming  you." 

"  But  I  feel  so  terribly  sorry  over  what  has  happened. 
You  can't  respect  me  if  this  goes  on.  I  know  you  think 
you  can,  but  you  can't,  because  after  a  while  I  sha'n't 
respect  myself.  Oh,  the  solemn  vows  we  have  broken! 
Now  I  am  going  to  lay  aside  all  rules  and  regulations  as 
you  call  them,  and  not  treat  you  as  a  boy,  but  as  a  man. 
I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  help  me  to  live  up  to  what  / 
think  is  right.  From  now  on  you  share  half  of  the  re- 
sponsibility. I  am  going  to  put  you  on  your  honor, 
and,  as  I  trust  you  fully,  I  shall  let  you  do  just  as  you 
please.  Will  you  do  that?" 

He  did  not  answer  at  once.  The  free  horse  of  the 
plains  was  slow  to  put  his  head  into  a  bridle. 

"Will  you?"  she  repeated,  smiling. 

"  It's  hard  to  go  on  your  honor  to  live  up  to  a  standard 
that  you  think  is  unnecessarily  high." 

"But  won't  you  do  it  for  my  sake — just  because  / 
want  you  to — just  because  it  will  make  me  happier?" 

"Yes,  I  will  do  it,"  said  he,  slowly.  He  paused  at  her 
chair  with  a  rueful  smile.  "  Now  they  are  all  in  the  past, 

325 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

beyond  recovery  —  all  those  little,  innocent  tokens  of 
love." 

"All  save  one,"  said  she,  happily.  "That  one  is  a 
little  card  of  merit,  such  as  you  used  to  get  at  Sunday- 
school,  a  long,  long  time  ago,  when  you  were  a  good  little 
boy.  Here  it  is." 

And  resting  her  palms  on  his  temples,  she  drew  his 
head  lower  and  kissed  him  on  the  lips. 


XLI 

A  SPRUCE  young  man  in  a  silk  hat  and  a  Prince  Al- 
bert coat,  with  a  medicine-case  in  his  hand,  briskly 
mounted  Davenport's  stairs,  nodded  to  the  new  stenog- 
rapher—  a  pretty  red  -  head,  with  a  Hibernian  cast  of 
features — and  passed  into  the  private  office. 

"Morris,  old  Billy  Manderson  is  sick — probably  dying 
— and  wants  to  make  his  will.  He  wants  you  to  come 
out  and  bring  Squire  Walrod  with  you." 

"Why  didn't  he  send  for  Dexter.  Dexter  is  his  law- 
yer." 

The  young  physician  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  step- 
ped over  to  examine  a  picture  on  the  wall. 

"Why  didn't  he  send  for  old  Burney  instead  of  me? 
Burney  is  his  doctor." 

"I  don't  see  how  I  can  go  to-day,  Hartley,"  said  Dav- 
enport. "  There's  no  danger  of  the  old  man  snuffing  out 
before  to-morrow,  is  there?" 

"  He  may  be  snuffed  out  now,  for  all  I  know.  Still,  I 
think  he's  likely  to  hold  on  for  several  days,  and  he  may 
live  a  week  or  a  month.  When  a  man  holds  on  as  long 
as  Uncle  Billy  has,  he  dies  hard.  Living  has  become  a 
habit,  you  see,  and  habits  are  hard  to  break,"  he  added, 
facetiously.  "But  I'm  personally  anxious,  Davenport, 
that  he  should  get  that  will  made  in  cast-iron  form." 

"Expect  a  legacy?" 

"No,  but  there's  a  raft  of  relatives  out  there  who  do, 
and  of  all  the  mean,  stingy,  shameless,  heartless  people 
that  I  ever  saw,  I  give  them  the  palm.  They've  gath- 

327 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

ered  out  there  like  a  flock  of  buzzards  around  a  dying 
horse  —  some  of  them  from  as  far  as  Kansas.  Eat! 
Penelope's  lovers  couldn't  hold  a  candle  to  the  puniest 
of  them.  They've  walked  that  farm  over  a  dozen  times, 
and  inspected  every  foot  of  it.  They've  looked  at  every 
horse  and  cow  on  the  place,  and,  I  have  no  doubt,  have 
agreed  among  themselves  on  a  division  of  the  plunder. 
They've  even  counted  the  chickens.  Now  I  happen  to 
know  that  the  old  man  is  going  to  cut  them  off  a  pretty 
thin  slice  of  his  fat  meat,  and  I  want  you  to  be  sure  and 
see  that  they  don't  grab  any  more  after  his  death." 

"I'll  see  to  that,"  said  Davenport,  cheerfully.  "I 
know  some  of  those  relatives  myself.  I'll  be  out  the 
first  thing  to-morrow  morning.  There's  really  no  need 
to  take  Walrod.but  if  the  old  man  wants  him,  I  guess 
I'd  better." 

Just  before  noon,  Davenport  climbed  the  dirty,  narrow 
stairs  to  Norman  Walrod's  office.  The  old  police-justice 
had  a  trial  of  some  kind  on,  and  his  little,  stuffy  office 
was  packed  with  spectators,  steaming  around  a  big, 
red-hot  wood-stove  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  It  was 
not  an  inviting  atmosphere;  but  Davenport  was  hard- 
ened, and,  drawing  a  cigar  for  a  disinfectant,  he  entered, 
leaving  the  door  open  behind  him. 

"Shut  that  door,  Davenport!"  bawled  the  judge,  in- 
stantly, in  a  voice  of  thunder. 

"A  little  fresh  air  wouldn't  hurt  this  place,  your  hon- 
or," observed  Davenport.  "It  smells  like  a  dog-kennel." 

"How  kin  it  help  it?"  growled  Walrod,  glowering 
significantly  on  the  assemblage  of  free-born  Americans. 
They,  with  national  good-humor,  laughed  at  the  joke 
on  themselves.  "Officer,"  continued  the  judge,  grimly, 
addressing  a  slouchy  individual  with  a  star  on  his  breast, 
"station  yourself  at  that  door  and  arrest  the  next  man 
that  leaves  it  open.  I'm  gettin'  tired  of  this.  If  I've 
ordered  that  door  shut  once  this  morning,  I've  done  it 

328 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

twenty  times.  Dog-kennel  or  no  dog-kennel,  I  ain't  go- 
ing to  heat  all  out-doors  with  wood  at  five  dollars  a  cord, 
sawin'  and  splittin'  extry." 

He  glanced  crustily  at  Davenport  as  the  latter  coolly 
took  the  chair  just  vacated  by  the  officer — the  only 
empty  one  in  sight  —  and  lit  his  cigar.  The  justice 
seemed  on  the  point  of  ordering  him  not  to  smoke  in 
court,  but  on  second  thought  he  refrained  and  lit  his 
own  corn-cob  pipe  instead,  with  short,  fierce  puffs. 

"  Now  go  on  with  this  here  ham  case,"  he  commanded, 
drawing  a  huge  silver  watch  that  weighted  his  vest  down 
like  a  flat-iron  (he  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves).  "  I've  heard 
ham  this  morning  till  I  can  taste  it.  It's  mighty  nigh 
dinner-time,  and  I  want  to  wind  this  picayunish  case  up. 
Did  you  want  to  see  me,  Davenport?"  he  turned  and 
asked,  in  a  milder  tone. 

"I  did." 

"Kin  you  wait  till  this  case  is  tried?  We'll  be  through 
in  ten  minutes,"  he  added,  with  a  threatening  glance 
at  the  counsel  for  the  defence,  a  nervous  young  fellow 
whose  sheepskin  had  probably  not  yet  begun  to  wrinkle. 

"Go  ahead,"  said  Davenport. 

The  case,  which  was  a  criminal  one,  involving  the  steal- 
ing of  certain  hams  out  of  Lyman  Hornblow's  smoke- 
house, moved  on  apace.  When  the  evidence  was  all 
in,  the  judge,  discouraging  the  argument  which  the  de- 
fence wanted  to  make,  instructed  the  jury: 

"Gentlemen,  the  case  is  up  to  you.  You've  heard 
the  evidence  and  you  know  as  much  about  it  as  I  do. 
That's  mighty  little,  for  of  all  the  irrelevant,  immaterial, 
and  nonsensical  testimony  that  I  ever  heard  drug  into 
a  case  in  my  thirty  years  of  experience,  I've  heard 
this  morning.  If  you  find  that  Nig  Washington  here" 
— indicating  the  prisoner,  a  young  jet-black  negro — 
"broke  into  Hornblow's  smoke-house  and  took  them 
hams,  he's  guilty.  If  you  find  that  he  didn't,  he  ain't, 

329 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

and  that  ends  it.  It's  my  private  opinion  that  he  ain't 
guilty;  for  if  he  was,  and  the  hams  he  took  was  as 
poor  as  the  one  Lime  Hornblow  sold  me  last  week  for 
fifteen  cents  a  pound,  straight  through,  bone  and  all, 
and  Nig  et  them  hams  himself,  he'd  be  standin'  before  a 
higher  court  than  this  to-day.  Officer,  take  the  jury  into 
my  back  room  there  and  see  that  they  are  properly 
guarded  until  they  arrive  at  a  verdict.  Also  see  that 
they  don't  tamper  with  my  smokin'  tobacco.  The  State 
don't  set  aside  an  allowance  for  jury  tobacco.  I  guess 
the  prisoner  will  set  here  and  wait  for  you  without  any 
guardin'.  He  knows  better  than  to  run  away.  And 
if  the  jury  finds  you  not  guilty,  Nig,  I  want  you  to  come 
around  this  afternoon  and  finish  sawin'  that  wood  I 
give  you  a  coat  for.  Hear?  If  you  don't,  I'll  commit 
you  for  contempt,"  he  added,  with  a  wink  at  Davenport. 
"Gentlemen,  court's  over.  Clear  out!  Officer,  I'm  goin' 
to  dinner  now  and  try  to  eat  something,  if  I  don't  find 
myself  too  full  of  ham.  If  the  jury  agrees,  you  can  re- 
ceive their  verdict  and  report  to  me.  Leave  that  stove 
door  open  when  you  go,  so  that  the  wood  won't  all  burn 
out.  Come  on,  Morris." 

The  old  man,  in  spite  of  his  crustiness,  loved  Daven- 
port ;  and  as  they  descended  the  stairs  together  he  slipped 
his  arm  through  the  younger  man's  and  confided  to  him 
that  young  Sperry,  counsel  for  the  defence,  wasn't  do- 
ing so  badly  for  a  beginner.  On  the  way  to  the  Basley 
House,  where  Walrod  also  took  his  meals,  Davenport 
communicated  old  Billy  Manderson's  message. 

"  I  can  go  with  you  all  right  in  the  morning,"  said  the 
judge.  "I've  got  a  little  jerkwater  case  set  for  ten 
o'clock,  but  I'll  stave  that  off.  How  much  will  there 
be  in  it  for  me,  do  you  suppose?" 

"Three  or  four  dollars,  probably." 

"Easy  money.  Still,  it's  lettin'  old  Billy  out  of  his 
mortal  coil  cheap.  Take  one  of  your  horses,  I  suppose." 

330 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Yes."  Morris  smiled,  for  he  knew  that  old  Norman 
wanted  to  avoid  livery  hire. 

"  Pick  out  a  gentle  one.  I'm  too  heavy  to  be  snapped 
around  on  the  tail  of  one  of  them  four-legged  comets  of 
yourn." 

Davenport  called  in  the  evening  to  inquire  after  Vic- 
toria. It  was  the  fourth  week  of  her  sickness;  the 
disease  had  run  its  course,  and  the  sick  one  was  gaining 
as  rapidly  as  could  be  expected.  To-night,  Josephine, 
dismissing  the  nurse  for  a  few  minutes'  relaxation,  took 
Davenport  up-stairs  for  the  first  time. 

Victoria  was  very  thin  and  white.  She  was  so  weak 
that  she  could  scarcely  lift  her  arm,  and  had  the  piping 
voice  of  a  child.  When  she  laughed,  as  she  was  begin- 
ning to  do  now,  the  thin,  shrill  sound  made  Josephine 
shudder. 

"Just  as  soon  as  you  can  go  out,  Victoria,"  said  Morris, 
"I'm  going  to  put  the  roses  into  your  cheeks  again,  by 
taking  you  out  riding  every  day." 

Victoria's  eyes,  larger  and  bluer  than  ever,  sparkled 
with  pleasure. 

"How  beautiful  the  trees  and  fields  will  look!"  she 
murmured. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  without  explaining  that  it  was  Decem- 
ber, and  the  trees  bare  and  the  fields  dull  and  brown. 
"The  sunshine  and  air  will  do  you  more  good  than  all 
the  medicine  in  the  world." 

"I'm  so  sick  of  medicine,"  said  she,  wearily.  "How 
long  will  it  be?" 

"  Not  very  long  now." 

"A  week?" 

"Yes;  maybe  a  little  longer.  But  you  will  be  sitting 
up  soon,  and  the  people  will  be  coming  in  to  see  you, 
and  it  won't  seem  so  long." 

"I  should  like  to  see  some  of  my  pupils,"  said  she. 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"They  will  come,  dear,"  said  Josephine.  "Some  of 
them  have  been  here  to  ask  about  you  almost  every  day, 
but  you  were  too  sick  to  see  them." 

"I  suppose  they  wanted  me  to  give  them  a  lesson." 

Her  mind  occasionally  wandered  a  little  yet,  through 
mere  languor;  but  they  could  see  the  old  fun  lurking  in 
her  eyes  now,  and  knew  that  she  was  joking.  In  a 
moment  of  tenderness,  Josephine  dropped  by  the  side 
of  the  bed  and  kissed  the  frail  joker  very  gently. 

"  I  want  to  whisper  something  to  Morris,"  added  Vic- 
toria. 

"Very  well.  It's  decidedly  impolite,  but  I'll  excuse 
you  this  time,  seeing  that  you  are  sick." 

Morris  knelt  in  Josephine's  place,  and  lay  his  ear  close 
to  the  invalid's  lips. 

"I  want  you  to  take  Josie  out  riding,  too,"  she  whis- 
pered. 

"Will  you  see  that  she  goes  if  I  ask  her?"  he  whispered 
back. 

She  nodded,  gayly.  Then  Miss  Hunter,  the  nurse, 
tapped  on  the  door  and  told  them,  smilingly,  that  they 
must  go  down-stairs  and  let  her  patient  sleep. 

"Do  you  want  to  know  what  she  told  me?"  asked 
Davenport,  down-stairs. 

"You'd  better  not  betray  any  confidences,"  she  an- 
swered, cautiously.  "Younger  sisters  are  sometimes 
quite  embarrassing." 

"She  told  me  that  I  must  take  you  out  riding,  too." 

"That  was  like  her,"  said  Josephine,  affectionately. 
Then,  in  an  altered  tone,  she  added,  "But  she's  a  sick 
girl  yet,  and  not  wholly  responsible  for  what  she  says." 

"It  struck  me  that  she  was  perfectly  rational." 

"  If  you  say  so,  I'll  go.  Under  the  new  arrangement 
I  submit  to  whatever  you  dictate,  remember." 

"Under  the  new  arrangement  I  see  that  I  shall  be- 
come a  very  heavily  laden  scapegoat." 

332 


The    Pride    of    Tellfalr 

Josephine  laughed. 

"No,"  she  protested.  "I  shall  always  give  you  the 
benefit  of  my  superior  wisdom,  but  shall  leave  the  de- 
cision to  you." 

"What  does  your  superior  wisdom  say  to  this?" 

"It  says  I  oughtn't  to  go." 

"Then  go  you  don't." 

But,  in  spite  of  his  gayety,  a  shade  of  disappointment 
crept  over  his  face.  She  saw  it,  and  was  just  wonder- 
ing whether  she  dare  add  an  alleviating  word  when  the 
door-bell,  no  longer  muffled,  suddenly  rang.  It  was  al- 
most ten  o'clock,  and  she  threw  an  inquiring  glance  at 
Davenport. 

"Who  can  that  be,  at  this  hour?"  she  asked,  rising. 

"Possibly  some  one  for  me." 

She  opened  the  door,  and  Davenport,  hearing  his 
name,  stepped  into  the  hall.  A  farmer's  boy,  rather 
flushed  and  excited,  stood  on  the  threshold. 

"Mr.  Manderson  is  dying,  Mr.  Davenport,  and  Miss 
Helzer  wants  you  to  come  right  out  with  Squire  Walrod 
to  make  the  will." 

Davenport  hesitated  an  instant.  An  eighteen  -  mile 
drive,  after  ten  o'clock,  on  a  pitch-dark  night,  was  not 
a  thing  to  be  accepted  with  enthusiasm. 

"Is  Dr.  Hartley  there?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Very  well,  I'll  come." 

"  Miss  Helzer  said  I  was  to  bring  you  out  in  my  buggy. 
I've  got  a  fast  pacer,"  he  added,  with  a  touch  of  pride. 

"  I've  got  a  faster  one,"  answered  the  lawyer.  "  We'll 
use  mine,  and  then  you  won't  have  to  bring  us  back. 
You  drive  on  and  tell  Miss  Helzer  that  I  shall  be  right 
out.  You'll  have  to  move,  too,  or  I'll  beat  you  there." 

The  boy  disappeared,  and  Davenport  stepped  to  the 
hall-tree  for  his  coat  and  hat.  Victoria's  sickness  had 
put  a  keener  edge  on  Josephine's  sympathy  where  death 

333 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

was  concerned,  and  her  face  was  now  soft  and  sub- 
dued. 

"Poor  old  Uncle  Billy!"  she  murmured. 

"He  won't  live  to  spit  that  tobacco-juice  on  Myron 
Rakestraw's  grave,"  said  Davenport,  smiling  at  the  rec- 
ollection. 

"Oh,  Morris!"  said  she,  reproachfully,  yet  smiling 
herself.  "That  sounds  heartless.  But  I  believe  Uncle 
Billy  would  laugh  too,  if  he  could  hear  it." 

"Of  course  he  would.  Good-bye.  Don't  you  feel 
sorry  for  me?" 

"Indeed  I  do — it  is  so  dark  to-night!"  she  murmured. 
"  I  shall  offer  up  a  little  prayer  that  you  don't  drive  off 
a  bridge  or  into  a  ditch.  Promise  me  you  won't  drive 
too  fast,"  she  added,  tightening  her  hand  on  his. 

"I  won't  drive  too  fast.     Good-night!" 


XLII 

JUDGE  WALROD,  wifeless  and  childless,  slept  in 
the  little  room  off  his  office  to  which  he  had  con- 
signed the  jury  in  the  ham  case.  Davenport  expected 
to  find  him  in  bed,  but  the  old  man  was  still  sitting  in 
his  shirt-sleeves  and  stocking  feet,  smoking,  with  a  little, 
ancient  wood-stove  between  his  outstretched  legs.  In 
one  corner  stood  a  single  bed,  still  in  the  tumbled  con- 
dition in  which  he  had  left  it  when  he  arose  that  morn- 
ing. In  another  corner  was  an  old  couch  showing  half 
its  springs  through  the  faded  upholstering.  The  walls 
were  hung  with  a  few  unframed  prints,  mostly  colored 
supplements  to  the  Chicago  Sunday  papers,  and  maps, 
township  plats,  and  files  of  ancient  newspapers  as  yellow 
and  rotten  as  the  wrappings  of  a  mummy.  No  woman's 
hand  had  ever  touched  the  room,  just  as  none  had  ever 
touched  its  occupant,  and  both  had  suffered  in  conse 
quence. 

"  Old  Billy  is  dying,  Norman,  and  we've  got  to  go  out 
to-night,"  announced  Morris,  briefly.  "My  horse  will 
be  here  in  three  minutes." 

Norman  swore  roundly  and  flatly  refused  to  go,  but 
even  as  he  did  so  he  drew  his  square-toed,  cowhide 
brogans  towards  him,  gruntingly  pulled  them  on,  and 
began  to  lace  their  leather  strings. 

"  I  might  have  known  that  if  old  Billy  could  pick 
out  an  inconvenient  hour  to  die  in,  he'd  do  it.  He's 
the  stubbornest  man  I  ever  knew,  when  he  sets  hisself." 
He  began  the  lacing  of  the  other  shoe,  which  made  him 

335 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

red  in  the  face,  and  cut  off  his  wind  momentarily.  "  But 
I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  talk  that  way  about  the  poor  old 
devil,  now.  A  man  at  the  gates  of  eternity  is  entitled 
to  some  respect.  Where's  my  pipe  and  tobacco?" 

"I've  got  some  cigars,"  said  Davenport,  handing  him 
one. 

"This  horse  gentle?"  asked  the  old  man,  as  he  ginger- 
ly pulled  himself  into  the  buggy,  making  it  reel  under 
his  bulk. 

"As  gentle  as  a  dove." 

"And  about  as  swift,  I  reckon,"  added  Walrod,  with 
a  chuckle.  "Don't  you  upset  me,  boy.  The  country 
can't  afford  to  lose  me  and  old  Billy  Manderson  both 
the  same  night." 

It  was  a  black,  starless  night.  The  hard,  white  road 
seemed  to  end,  a  rod  ahead,  in  a  yawning  pit.  The 
spirited  horse,  Davenport's  best,  received  the  word  for 
which  it  had  been  restlessly  waiting.  As  if  divining  the 
importance  of  the  journey,  it  leaped  forward,  stretched 
its  graceful  body,  and  thrust  its  long  head  and  neck  out 
into  the  night,  like  a  wild  goose  settling  to  its  flight. 
Then  reaching  out  with  long,  rapid  strides,  it  drew  them 
swiftly  and  smoothly  along,  like  the  superb,  God-made 
machine  which  it  was.  "Trot!  trot!  trot!"  Those 
words  had  rung  in  its  ancestors'  ears  for  centuries,  and 
in  its  own  from  birth.  To  trot,  and  trot  well,  was  the 
chief  end  of  its  existence.  Yea,  trotting  was  better, 
sweeter,  grander  than  existence  itself;  and  as  a  man 
will  lay  down  his  life  for  country,  or  a  woman  for  honor, 
so  would  this  thoroughbred  lay  down  its  life  for  speed. 

Shadowy  objects  on  either  side — houses,  barns,  straw- 
stacks — leaped  into  sight,  like  phantoms  of  the  night, 
and  then  leaped  out  again.  Bridges  roared,  without 
warning,  beneath  their  flying  wheels.  Neither  man 
spoke  much.  Davenport,  soothed  by  the  smooth 
motion,  watched  the  ceaseless,  tireless  play  of  the  dim 

336 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

form  before  him.  Walrod,  with  his  hat  jammed  down 
to  his  ears,  and  his  cigar  clinched  between  his  teeth  and 
burning  like  tinder  in  the  stiff  breeze,  gripped  the  back 
of  the  seat  with  one  hand  and  the  top-bow  with  the 
other.  His  short,  thick  legs  were  rigidly  braced  against 
the  foot-rest. 

"Say,  Morris,"  he  gasped,  finally,  "ain't  you  givin' 
this  streak  of  greased  chain  -  lightnin'  a  pretty  free 
rein?" 

"It  takes  a  free  rein  to  win  in  a  race  with  Death," 
answered  the  other. 

"It's  as  dark  as  a  pocket.  If  we  should  strike  an- 
other team  we'd  never  know  what  killed  us." 

"  Neither  would  the  other  fellow — if  that's  any  com- 
fort." 

Walrod  subsided  for  a  time. 

"You'll  have  your  plug  winded  before  we  git  half-way 
there,  at  this  rate,"  he  began  again. 

"This  horse  would  keep  up  this  gait,  Norman,  with- 
out another  sound  from  me,  until  it  dropped  dead." 

"How  much  did  you  pay  for  him?" 

"Six  hundred  dollars." 

"No  horse  is  worth  that." 

"A  horse  is  worth  just  what  he  will  bring." 

They  flashed  by  a  large  building  close  to  the  road. 
The  smell  of  pine  and  the  gleam  of  unpainted  boards 
told  them  that  it  was  new. 

"I  didn't  know  Turner  was  buildin'  a  new  barn," 
observed  the  judge. 

"He  isn't.     This  is  Bob  Hawkins's  place." 

"Bob  Hawkins's!  Good  God  Almighty,  Morris,  are 
you  crazy?  Bob  Hawkins's  is  three  miles  from  Tell- 
fair." 

"So  are  we." 

The  judge  sat  in  stunned  silence  for  a  moment,  peer- 
ing vainly  into  the  impenetrable  gloom. 
29  337 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"  Why,  boy,"  he  blustered,  "  we  'ain't  been  on  the  road 
ten  minutes  yet!" 

"Just  about  ten  minutes,"  answered  Davenport,  hold- 
ing his  watch-dial  against  the  glow  of  his  cigar.  "We 
are  going  a  mile  every  three  minutes  and  a  half,  if  not 
more." 

Norman  groaned,  muttered  something  emphatic  about 
some  kind  of  hare-brained  idiocy,  and  settled  into  a 
resigned  silence.  It  was  fifteen  or  tweny  minutes  later 
when  Firefly,  without  any  warning,  pulled  out  an  extra 
inch  or  two  of  line  from  Davenport's  hands  and  shot 
ahead  like  an  arrow  from  a  bow. 

"What  in  hell  is  the  matter  now?"  cried  the  judge, 
thoroughly  alarmed.  "Hold  the  cuss  in  or  he'll  kill 
us  both." 

"Don't  talk!"  said  Davenport,  sharply.  "I  don't 
know  what's  the  matter.  I  think  he  hears  wheels  ahead. 
It's  probably  the  boy  that  came  after  me.  Let  us  hope 
so,  and  that  he'll  have  sense  enough  to  get  out  of  the 
road,"  he  added,  grimly. 

He  was  straining  his  eyes  into  the  pitchy  night  ahead, 
and  working  hard  with  both  voice  and  rein  to  reduce 
their  speed ;  but  it  was  no  easy  task  to  control  the  ex- 
cited and  determined  animal. 

"  Hadn't  I  better  yell  for  him  to  clear  the  track?" 
asked  the  judge,  excitedly. 

"  If  you  do,  we'll  have  a  runaway.  And  we  shall,  any- 
how, if  you  don't  shut  up." 

At  that  instant  something  black  suddenly  shot  up  on 
the  squire's  side,  apparently  right  on  top  of  him.  He 
dodged,  clutched  Davenport's  arm,  looked  again,  and 
the  thing  was  gone. 

"The  boy,"  observed  Davenport,  calmly. 

The  judge  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  The  horse  was 
slowing  down. 

"If  there's  any  more  teams  to  be  passed,  Morris,  I'll 
338 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

walk  around  'em,  and  Billy  Manderson  kin  go  right  on 
to  heaven  and  pick  out  his  harp  without  a  will.  If  I 
owned  this  hoss  of  yours  I'd  shoot  him  on  sight  for  such 
a  trick  as  that." 

Davenport  laughed  joyously. 

"He's  been  taught  all  his  life,  Norman,  and  all  his 
father's,  grandfather's  and  great-grandfather's  lives,  that 
the  first,  last,  and  only  thing  to  do,  when  he  sees  an- 
other horse,  is  to  pass  him." 

Morris  had  not  lost  his  bearings,  and  they  turned  into 
the  Manderson  place  a  few  minutes  later.  The  sagacious 
horse  slowed  up  of  its  own  accord.  Davenport  glanced 
at  his  watch  again. 

"Nine  miles  in  thirty-five  minutes!"  said  he,  with  a 
note  of  pride,  to  the  astounded  Walrod. 

He  carefully  blanketed  his  steaming  horse,  after 
which  he  patted  its  wet  neck  approvingly  and  gave  it  a 
cube  of  sugar  from  the  supply  he  always  carried  in  his 
pocket.  Walrod  looked  on  with  a  cynical  eye. 

"  I  suppose  that's  to  egg  him  on  in  his  hellishness,"  he 
observed,  sarcastically. 

The  big,  square  house  was  dark  save  for  a  dull  glow 
through  the  marginal  lights  of  the  front  door.  Miss 
Helzer,  old  Billy's  housekeeper,  was  waiting  for  the  men 
of  law,  and  led'  them  to  the  death-chamber  at  once. 
To  their  astonishment  the  dying  man  was  sitting  up  in 
bed.  The  relatives,  a  round  dozen  of  them,  sat  or  stood 
about  the  room,  suspicious  and  watchful.  Young  Dr. 
Hartley  sat  in  a  corner  by  himself,  as  if  refusing  in- 
tercourse with  the  "buzzards."  His  chair  was  tilted 
against  the  wall,  and,  to  the  amazement  of  the  new- 
comers, he  had  a  cigar  in  his  mouth. 

"Is  that  the  latest  practice,  Hartley,  for  delaying  dis- 
solution?" asked  Davenport,  aside,  with  a  questioning 
glance  at  the  doctor's  cigar. 

"The  old  man  has  smoked  three  pipes  since  eight 

339 


The    Pride    of    Tell  fair 

o'clock,  and  I  thought  I'd  keep  him  company,"  an- 
swered Hartley,  coolly. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  seriously,  that  Billy  has  been 
smoking?" 

"Go  feel  his  pipe;  you'll  find  it  hot  yet." 

There  the  pipe  was,  sure  enough,  beside  Billy's  med- 
icines and  Bible,  on  a  little  stand  by  the  bed. 

"Why  did  you  let  them  send  for  us,  then,  at  this 
hour,  with  the  report  that  he  was  dying?"  asked  Daven- 
port. 

"He  was — he  is.  He  may  die  at  any  minute.  He 
has  had  several  sinking-spells,  and  I  thought  once  he 
was  gone.  I  think  all  that  brought  him  back  was  the 
determination  to  balk  these  harpies." 

Davenport  glanced  towards  the  corner  again.  Miss 
Helzer  had  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  allowed 
the  sick  man  to  take  one  of  her  hands.  Aside  from 
bleaching  his  florid  face,  the  summons  of  Death  had 
effected  little  change  in  old  Billy.  His  arms,  shoulders, 
and  chest  were  as  plump  as  ever.  The  skin  of  his 
cheeks  hung  in  flabby  folds,  but  the  masterful  jaw  did 
not  sag.  His  sunken,  faded,  and  wellnigh  sightless  eyes 
were  like  magic  peep-holes  into  a  gray,  hoary  past. 
Yet  they  still  burned  with  that  unquenchable  fire  which 
had  kept  his  life-machine  steamed  up  for  close  onto  a 
century. 

Here  was  a  man  born  before  George  Washington  died, 
who  remembered  well  the  War  of  1812,  who  was  a 
grandfather  of  sixty-three  when  the  Civil  War  began, 
too  old  by  nearly  twenty  years,  under  military  law,  to 
carry  a  musket.  And  still  he  was  here.  His  generation 
had  long  been  laid  away  in  the  church-yard,  and  mostly 
forgotten.  His  children,  even,  were  all  long  since  dead; 
and  the  six  grandchildren,  who  had  gathered  with  the 
others  around  his  death-bed  to  cast  lots  for  his  goods 
and  raiment,  were  bent  and  worn  with  age.  Yet  there 

340 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

he  was,  a  gray  old  spider  in  his  web — a  morsel  so  dry,  so 
tough,  so  cured  by  the  winds  of  time  as  to  turn  the 
tooth  of  Death  himself  and  make  him  long  at  his  task. 

The  old  man  sat  propped  up  in  bed,  blinking  like 
an  owl  in  sunlight  and  mumbling  to  himself.  But  at 
every  sound  he  would  lift  his  head  and  hearken,  like 
some  fierce  old  eagle  wounded  unto  death,  but  ready  to 
fight  to  the  last  beat  of  its  heart.  Occasionally  his 
ancient  face  softened,  and,  crooning  childishly,  he  would 
pat  the  hand  he  held  and  kiss  it  with  his  sunken  lips. 
Some  of  the  female  relatives  chastely  averted  their  faces 
at  these  manifestations  of  an  unhallowed  love,  as  they 
chose  tt>  regard  it;  but  Miss  Helzer's  black  eyes  did 
not  for  an  instant  acknowledge  any  shame,  and  defied 
them  all. 

"Here's  Mr.  Davenport,  Uncle  Billy,"  said  she,  as 
Morris  came  forward.  "He  has  come  to  make  your 
will." 

The  old  man  looked  up,  struggling  with  his  failing 
eyes  and  mind. 

"  Is  that  you,  Morris?  Is  it  him,  Carrie?  Yes,  yes, 
it's  him.  I  see  him.  I  was  afraid  they  would  send  for 
Dexter,  that  scoundrelly  Dexter!  But  you  wouldn't 
do  that,  would  you,  Carrie?" 

He  paused  and  blinked  again,  and  it  seemed  as  if  his 
mind  were  momentarily  at  fault.  But  there  was  still 
activity  in  the  workshop  in  his  skull,  and  the  next  in- 
stant a  cunning  look  overspread  his  face. 

"Bend  down,  Morris,"  he  whispered,  huskily,  placing 
his  trembling  hands  on  the  young  man's  shoulders. 
"They've  come  to  rob  me — the  ingrates.  They've  left 
me  alone  all  these  years,  whether  I  was  sick  or  well,  and 
now  they  have  come  to  pick  my  bones.  Give  them  a 
thousand  dollars  apiece  and  not  a  cent  more.  All  the 
rest  goes  to  this  little  girl." 

The  little  girl  was  Miss  Helzer,  of  course,  a  buxom 
34i 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

woman  of  forty.  But  doubtless  she  did  seem  young  to 
him,  who  was  fifty-eight  when  she  first  saw  the  light. 

"  Make  it  tight,  Morris — make  it  tight,"  continued  the 
old  man,  earnestly.  "They'll  try  to  break  it.  They'll 
claim  I'm  in  my  dotage.  But  the  little  girl  will  show 
you  a  will  drawn  eight  years  ago  by  Dexter.  Then  I 
only  gave  them  five  hundred  apiece.  Ha,  ha!  And 
now  I'm  giving  them  a  thousand.  I'm  getting  generous 
in  my  old  age.  Ha,  ha!  But  they  don't  deserve  it. 
They  left  me  alone.  They  never  wrote  to  me.  They 
didn't  know  whether  I  was  sick  or  well.  This  little 
girl  did  it  all.  She  was  my  ministering  angel,  and  when 
I  reach  those  heavenly  courts  I'll  intercede  for  her. 
But  make  it  tight,  Morris — make  it  tight!" 

During  this  whispered  monologue  the  excitement 
among  the  relatives  was  great.  One  of  the  men,  unable 
to  stand  the  suspense  longer,  stole  nearer  and  bent  for- 
ward to  listen.  Davenport  raised  his  head. 

"This  conversation  is  strictly  confidential,  my  friend, 
and  if  we  are  again  interrupted  I  shall  request  that  you 
all  leave  the  room,"  said  he,  bluntly. 

"That's  right!  Send  'em  out — send  'em  out!"  cackled 
Billy,  warming,  with  the  very  dew  of  death  on  his  brow, 
at  the  prospect  of  battle.  "We  don't  want  them.  But 
can  you  make  'em  go,  Morris?"  he  asked,  in  a  doubtful 
undertone.  "/  couldn't — the  little  girl  and  I  couldn't." 

"No,  he  can't  do  it,"  said  one  of  the  women,  shrilly. 
"We're  your  blood  relations,  Billy  Manderson,  and  the 
law  will  allow  us  to  stay.  What's  more,  it  will  give  us 
our  due  share." 

"Hear  that!"  exclaimed  the  sick  man,  clutching  the 
lawyer's  hand.  "Hear  that!  They're  after  me.  They'll 
git  me  yet." 

"No,  they  won't  get  you,  Uncle  Billy,  I  pledge  you 
my  word,"  said  Davenport.  Turning  to  the  group,  he 
added:  "You  might  as  well  know  now,  all  of  you,  that 

342 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

the  law  gives  you  absolutely  nothing  except  what  this 
old  man,  in  his  generosity,  sees  fit  to  will  you.  He  wants 
you  to  have  a  thousand  dollars  apiece;  and  I  must  say 
that,  considering  your  shameful  neglect  of  him  during 
all  these  years,  I  regard  the  bequest  as  a  notable  example 
of  generosity.  The  rest  of  his  fortune,  some  fifty  thou- 
sand dollars  or  more,"  he  added,  giving  the  word  a 
tantalizing  emphasis,  "goes  to  Miss  Helzer  here,  who 
has  faithfully  taken  care  of  him  for  the  last  ten  years." 

"That's  right!  Give  it  to  'em  straight,  Morris!" 
cried  the  old  man,  exultantly  —  from  the  threshold  of 
eternity. 

A  groan  went  up  from  the  outraged  relatives.  One 
of  the  men,  leaping  to  his  feet,  called  out,  vehemently: 
"That's  a  lie!  You'll  get  half  of  it  yourself.  You've 
conspired  with  that  shameless  hussy  to  pull  the  wool 
over  that  old  dotard's  eyes  and  cheat  us  blood  relatives 
out  of  our  own." 

"Put  him  out!  Knock  him  down!  He  called  you  a 
liar!"  shouted  old  Billy,  his  fighting  blood  now  fairly  up, 
and  he  actually  made  a  move  to  leave  the  bed. 

"Keep  cool,  Billy,"  said  Davenport.  "We'll  give 
this  cowardly  cur  a  chance  to  answer  in  court  to  Miss 
Helzer  for  defamation  of  character.  I  shall  be  pleased 
to  conduct  the  suit  for  her  free  of  charge." 

The  threat  had  the  desired  effect,  and  the  man  said 
no  more.  The  will  was  swiftly  drawn,  signed,  and 
attested,  in  the  presence  of  Norman  Walrod,  notary 
public,  and  two  witnesses — Miss  Helzer  and  the  doctor 
— and  made  as  "tight"  as  legal  lore  could  make  it. 

The  centenarian,  still  sitting  up,  was  quiet  for  some 
time  after.  It  was  hard  to  say  whether  he  was  think- 
ing or  dozing  or  in  that  state  of  quiescence  which  pre- 
cedes dissolution.  At  length,  though,  he  roused  him- 
self. 

"Play  for  me,  Carrie,"  he  commanded. 
343 


The    Pride    of    Tel  If  air 

"What  shall  I  play?"  asked  Miss  Helzer,  rising  and 
seating  herself  at  a  little  cabinet  organ. 

"You  know,"  said  he,  with  a  smile. 

'"On  Jordan's  Stormy  Banks  I  Stand'?" 

"No,  no.     Not  that." 

'"Oh,  How  I  Long  to  be  There'?" 

" No,  no,"  he  repeated,  impatiently.  "The  other  one. 
You  know."  Evidently  it  was  too  much  of  a  mental 
effort  for  him  to  name  the  hymn  or  song. 

"I  am  sure  I  don't,"  she  answered,  gently.  "Can't 
you  name  any  of  the  words?" 

"There  was  an  old  man,'"  he  began,  slowly,  and 
stopped. 

She  flushed,  and  glanced  about  her  in  embarrass- 
ment. 

"Oh,  not  that — not  now." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  want  to  sing  it,"  he  whined. 

"Let  him  sing  what  he  wants  to,  Miss  Helzer,"  inter- 
posed the  doctor. 

After  another  instant  of  hesitation  she  touched  the 
keys,  and  the  strains  of  a  rollicking  old  air  came  bub- 
bling out  of  the  little  organ.  Old  Billy's  face  lighted ; 
he  cleared  his  throat  as  naturally  as  ever,  and  in  a 
quavering,  broken  voice  began  to  sing: 

"There  was  an  old  man  who  had  a  wooden  leg; 
No  tobaccy  could  he  borrow,  nor  tobaccy  could  he  beg. 
There  was  another  old  man  as  sly  as  a  fox, 
And  he  always  had  tobaccy  in  his  tobaccy-box." 

Miss  Helzer  played  an  interlude ;  Billy  smiled  as  sweet- 
ly as  a  child.  Then  came  the  second  stanza: 

"  Said  the  first  old  man,  '  Will  ye  give  me  a  chew?' 
Said  the  second  old  man,  'I'll  be  dummed  if  I  do. 
Keep  away  from  them  gin-mills  and  save  up  your  rocks, 
And  you'll  always  have  tobaccy  in  your  tobaccy-box.'  " 
344 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

The  music  ceased.  Old  Billy's  eyes  were  lifted  to  the 
ceiling.  But  they  were  looking  into  infinity,  now,  fixed 
and  unblinking,  filled  with  an  unearthly  light. 

"That's  what  I  done,"  he  whispered,  solemnly.  "I 
saved  up  my  rocks." 

He  sank  gently  back  upon  the  pillows  and  died.  Such 
was  his  exit,  after  nearly  one  hundred  years  upon  the 
stage  of  life.  Such  the  words  which  went  echoing  after 
him  into  eternity. 


XLIII 

DAVENPORT  went  up  to  Walrod's  office,  when  they 
got  back  to  Tellfair,  to  put  the  will  in  the  latter's 
safe  for  the  night.  He  tarried  a  moment  while  Walrod 
pulled  off  his  shoes,  lit  his  pipe,  and  with  a  grunt  of 
satisfaction  thrust  his  white -socked  feet  towards  the 
stove.  But  the  fates  were  against  him.  At  that  same 
instant  there  came  a  loud,  insistent  rap  upon  the  outer 
door. 

"Well,  now,  who  in  tarnation  is  thatf"  he  snapped. 
"  If  people  can't  do  business  with  me  by  daylight,  I  wish 
they  wouldn't  do  it  at  all.  I'll  keep  out  of  the  poor- 
house.  Another  will,  I  suppose,  nine  miles  the  other 
side  of  town." 

He  reached  for  his  shoes  once  more;  then  muttering 
that  he  would  be  somethinged  or  other  if  he  put  on 
those  somethinged  or  other  shoes  again  that  night 
for  any  something  or  other  on  the  face  of  God's  foot- 
stool, he  shuffled  into  the  outer  office  in  his  stocking 
feet. 

"Shut  the  door,"  said  Davenport,  with  professional 
caution;  and  the  squire  banged  it  to  with  a  force  that 
made  the  ink-well  jump. 

Davenport  finished  a  notation  on  the  back  of  the 
legal  instrument,  tucked  it  away  in  the  little  antiquated 
safe,  and  closed  the  door — a  precaution  the  squire  him- 
self seldom  took,  as  he  kept  nothing  in  the  safe  more 
valuable  than  his  smoking-tobacco,  which  was  not  of 
a  quality  to  tempt  men  to  burglary.  Then  Walrod 

346 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

shuffled  in  again,  with  a  very  expressive  face,  and  closed 
the  door  behind  him. 

"Here's  a  pretty  kittle  of  fish  for  me  to  bile,"  be  be- 
gan, grumblingly.  "  Who  do  you  suppose  is  out  there  ?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

"Well,  if  you'd  guess  the  last  people  on  earth  that 
ought  to  be  there  at  this  hour,  you'd  hit  it.  It's  that 
young  popskull  Collie  and  Berthy  Congreve,  and  they 
want  to  git  married." 

"Married!"  echoed  Davenport. 

"That's  what  they  say,"  answered  Walrod.  "And 
judging  from  the  fact  that  they  have  a  license,  duly 
signed  by  Pont  Jones,  I  take  it  they  ain't  jokin'.  What 
am  I  going  to  do  about  it?  Of  course,  it's  clandestine 
or  they  wouldn't  be  here  at  this  hour.  I  don't  care 
about  tying  up  Harvey  Congreve's  girl  unless  he  wants 
her  tied  up,  and  then  be  damned  forty  ways  for  Sun- 
day by  this  community.  At  the  same  time  they  are 
free,  white,  and  twenty-one,  and  as  a  magistrate  it's 
my  business  to  lay  personality  aside  and  do  simple 
justice.  Now  what  is  simple  justice?" 

In  answering  this  question,  Davenport  was  scarcely 
conscious  of  the  bearing  it  had  upon  himself.  It  hardly 
occurred  to  him  that  Bertha's  marriage  to  Collie  would 
remove  the  barrier  which  stood  between  him  and  Jose- 
phine. Yet  in  some  curious  way  he  was  wondering 
what  answer  Josephine  would  have  given  Walrod.  She 
would  have  told  him  not  to  marry  them,  he  was  quite 
sure.  But  then  she  would  have  looked  at  the  question 
from  a  personal  stand-point. 

"If  they  want  to  get  married,  we  can't  stop  them," 
he  said.  "We  could  only  delay  them  a  few  hours  or 
days  at  the  most.  I  don't  know  that  there  would  be 
any  wisdom  in  that,  or  that  we  have  any  right  to  do  it. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  will  hurt  Harvey,  I  know.  I'd 
sooner  be  mixed  up  in  a  free  fight  than  this  affair." 

347 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Maybe  I  wouldn't,"  answered  Walrod,  gloomily. 
"Looked  at  one  way,  it's  all  right;  another  way,  it's  all 
wrong.  Ain't  it  a  big  surprise  to  you,  Morris?" 

"The  biggest  in  some  time." 

"It's  a  bouncer  to  me,  I  can  tell  you.  I  never  liked 
that  little,  putty-faced  skunk  out  there  myself.  If  I  had 
a  daughter  I'd  sooner  tie  her  to  a  clothes-dummy.  A 
dollar's  worth  of  goods  for  a  dollar's  worth  of  money! 
Hell!  I  wonder  if  that  is  what  he  thinks  he's  giving 
her." 

"She  probably  thinks  so." 

"Well,  she's  the  doctor.  They  say  he's  sharp.  But 
so's  a  jack-knife.  What  '11  I  do?" 

"Let's  go  out  and  talk  to  them  a  little." 

The  undersized  aspirants  to  matrimony  were  seated 
on  opposite  sides  of  the  room,  as  if  resolved  to  decorous- 
ly keep  their  distance  until  the  law  made  them  one. 
Bertha  wore  a  fawn-colored  coat  which  swept  the  floor. 
(Collie  had  been  trying  to  introduce  the  style  in  Tell- 
fair.)  Her  neck  was  encircled  by  a  black  marten  fur, 
and  three  black  plumes  rose  majestically  from  a  broad- 
brimmed,  black  velvet  hat,  of  a  pattern  handled  ex- 
clusively in  Tellfair  by  Mr.  Collie  in  his  millinery  depart- 
ment. She  might  have  been  an  enlarged  image  of  the 
Queen  of  Fairies,  and  not  so  greatly  enlarged,  either. 
She  was  very  dignified,  however,  very  composed,  and 
very  pale.  Her  threadlike,  scarlet  lips  were  as  straight 
as  a  rule.  Her  eyes,  usually  sky  blue,  were  purple  with 
suppressed  excitement,  but  fearless. 

Collie  was  also  composed,  and  also  a  little  pale.  He 
was  buried  from  his  ears  down  in  a  checked  ulster, 
although  the  weather  was  not  severe.  The  garment 
seemed  several  sizes  too  large,  and  it  was  only  by  oc- 
casionally hitching  himself  up  that  he  kept  from  sink- 
ing out  of  sight  altogether. 

"Evening,  Davenport,"  said  he,  suavely,  with  a  slight 
348 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

motion  of  the  stiff  hat  he  held  in  his  hand.  Davenport's 
presence  there  at  half-past  twelve  o'clock  at  night  seem- 
ed to  cause  him  no  surprise. 

"Good-evening,  Morris,"  said  Bertha,  distinctly.  Per- 
haps she  turned  a  little  paler. 

Davenport  sat  down  with  his  arm  over  the  back  of  a 
chair,  familiarly. 

"Does  Harvey  know  of  this,  Bertha?"  he  asked, 
frankly. 

"No,  sir." 

"Have  you  any  reason  to  suppose  that  he  would 
object  to  it?" 

"I  have." 

"Collie,  have  you  asked  Mr.  Congreve  for  Bertha's 
hand?" 

"I  have." 

"And  he  refused?" 

"  Plump  and  plain." 

"Do  you  think  it  right  to  marry  Bertha  against  his 
will?" 

"I  do." 

"Do  you  think  it's  good  business?"  Davenport's 
eyes  twinkled,  but  Mr.  Collie  saw  no  joke  in  such  a 
sensible  question. 

"Davenport,  I  believe  it  is,"  said  he,  earnestly,  lean- 
ing forward.  "I  believe  that  whatever  is  right  is  good 
business,  whether  you  can  figure  it  out  that  way  at  the 
time  or  not.  And  I  think  this  is  right  because  I  love 
Bertha  and  she  loves  me." 

"Bully  for  you,  young  man!"  cried  the  judge.  "I 
wish  more  of  'em  had  your  nerve." 

"Do  you  think  it  wise,  aside  from  business,  to  marry 
under  these  circumstances?"  continued  Davenport. 

"Don't  cross-examine  him  too  close  along  that  line, 
Morris,"  interposed  the  judge  again,  as  if  holding  court. 
"That's  a  question  most  men  can  answer  better  after 

349 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

marriage  than  before,  and  I  don't  doubt  Collie  kin, 
too." 

Collie  smiled,  but  Bertha's  beautiful,  pallid  face  re- 
laxed no  line  of  stateliness — perhaps  because  the  re- 
mark was  at  the  expense  of  her  sex. 

"  Don't  you  both  think,"  continued  Davenport,  "that 
it  would  be  better  to  defer  your  marriage  a  short  time, 
and  attempt  once  more  to  gain  Mr.  Congreve's  consent? 
Or,  failing  in  that,  to  give  him  due  notice  of  your  in- 
tention to  marry  ?  I  think  you  would  wound  his  feelings 
less  in  that  way,  and  avoid  a  great  deal  of  gossip  and 
unpleasant  notoriety." 

Collie  referred  the  question  to  Bertha  with  his  eyes. 
She  referred  it  back  again,  with  her  opinion  attached — 
all  with  her  eyes. 

"I  don't  believe  he  would  give  his  consent,"  said 
Collie.  "Besides,  it's  too  late  now.  We've  got  our 
license,  and  everybody  will  know  it  by  to-morrow." 

"Why  did  you  come  up  here  so  late,  if  I  may  ask?" 
said  Davenport. 

"I  didn't  get  the  license  until  after  I  had  closed  my 
store,"  answered  Collie.  "Then  we  started  for  Marys- 
ville.  We  got  within  a  mile  of  there  when  we  both  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  it  would  look  better  to  be  married 
in  our  own  town.  So  we  turned  around  and  came 
back." 

"The  judge  here  is  in  doubt  as  to  his  duty.  Suppose 
he  refuses  to  marry  you.  What  will  you  do?" 

"Drive  back  to  Marysville." 

"You  wouldn't  try  Squire  Henry  or  any  of  the 
preachers?" 

"No.  We  don't  care  to  hawk  this  job  around.  It's 
easy  money,  and  if  the  judge  here  don't  want  it,  we  will 
take  it  out  of  town.  It's  nothing  to  me,  except  that  I'd 
sooner  leave  my  money  with  the  people  that  leave  their 
money  with  me." 

350 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

Walrod  cleared  his  throat,  and  cast  a  furtive  glance 
at  the  pigeon-hole  containing  his  blank  marriage  cer- 
tificates. 

"What  do  you  think,  Morris?"  he  asked. 

"I  think  you  had  better  marry  them." 

The  squire  turned  with  alacrity,  drew  out  a  blank, 
and  began  to  hunt  a  pen  that  would  write. 

"Where  does  your  mother  think  you  are,  Bertha?" 
asked  Morris,  while  Mr.  Collie  was  answering  the  neces- 
sary questions. 

"She  thinks  I'm  to  sleep  with  Carrie  Stone." 

"  I  reckon  she'll  be  a  little  surprised,"  observed  Wal- 
rod, with  a  chuckle.  It  was  a  fine  night's  work  for  him 
— the  marriage  and  the  will — and  he  felt  good. 

For  the  first  time,  Bertha  confessed  her  femininity. 
Her  eyes  dropped  and  a  red  tongue  of  blood  shot 
through  her  marble  cheek  and  temple.  But  she  fought 
it  instantly  back,  and  said,  haughtily: 

"  I  shall  go  home  as  soon  as  we  are  married." 

"  Certainly,  Berthy,  certainly.  You  mustn't  git  mad 
at  a  little  joke  like  that,  from  an  old  man  like  me."  He 
suddenly  paused.  "By  George!  Morris,  we've  got  to 
have  another  witness.  It's  a  poor  time  of  night,  too, 
to  wake  up  a  man  for  a  charity  deed." 

"I'll  see  that  any  one  who  comes  is  paid  well  for  his 
time,"  said  Collie,  promptly. 

"  Ring  up  Hayford's  livery-stable,  Morris,  and  get  one 
of  them  stable  -  boys  up  here.  They're  likely  to  be 
playin'  poker  down  there  yet." 

But  Davenport,  seeing  the  brave  little  bride  shrink, 
said,  "No,  I'll  ask  the  night  operator  at  the  telephone 
exchange  if  she  can't  step  over  here  for  a  minute." 

This  he  did  in  spite  of  Walrod's  protest  that  it  would 
take  her  an  hour  to  dress.  Moreover,  he  went  after  her, 
and  prepared  her  on  the  way  back  for  what  she  was  to 
see,  so  that  she  stepped  into  the  room  without  surprise. 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Stand  up  and  join  your  right  hands,"  commanded 
the  judge,  without  delay.  "James,  do  you  take  this 
woman  to  be  your  lawful  wedded  wife,  to  love,  honor, 
and  so  forth,  as  long  as  you  live?" 

"I  do." 

"Berthy,  do  you  take  this  man  to  be  your  lawful 
wedded  husband,  to  love,  honor,  obey,  and  so  forth, 
as  long  as  you  live?" 

"I  do."     Her  voice  was  low,  but  sweet  and  clear. 

"Then  consider  yourselves  man  and  wife.  And  may 
you  never  regret  it,"  he  added,  grimly,  in  lieu  of  a 
prayer. 

Collie  turned  and  gave  his  new  wife  a  kiss.  When 
Davenport  stepped  over  to  congratulate  her,  she  gave 
him  a  little  hand  as  cold  as  ice.  A  tear  stood  in  either 
eye,  though  she  dashed  them  quickly,  almost  fiercely, 
away. 

A  great  pity  filled  Davenport's  bosom.  She  was  such 
a  feminine  thing,  so  easy  to  lead,  so  hard  to  drive,  so 
soft,  so  clinging,  yearning  for  love,  holding  body  and 
soul  cheap  barter  for  it.  Yet  just  why  he  pitied  her  he 
might  have  been  puzzled  to  say.  Collie  was  probably 
as  good  a  man  as  she  was  a  woman. 

Mr.  Collie  extended  two  fingers  towards  Walrod,  with 
a  crisp  five-dollar  bill,  folded  lengthwise,  between  them. 
Walrod  took  the  bill;  but  uncertain  whether  Collie  ex- 
pected any  change  or  not,  and  not  wishing  to  put  any 
such  idea  into  the  young  man's  mind  if  it  were  not  al- 
ready there,  he  thrust  his  hand  into  his  trousers-pocket, 
rattled  his  keys,  and  hemmed  and  hawed.  But  Collie 
did  not  wait  for  any  change,  and  led  Davenport  aside. 

"Do  you  think  that  young  telephone  woman  would 
accept  anything,  say  a  dollar,  for  her  trouble?  It's 
simply  a  straight  matter  of  business  with  me,  you  know, 
not  being  acquainted  with  her." 

"Bertha  is  acquainted  with  her,"  said  Davenport. 
352 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"I  shouldn't  offer  her  anything.  You  might  offend 
her.  You  can  show  your  appreciation  later,  some  other 
way." 

When  they  had  all  gone,  the  newly  married  pair  es- 
corting the  operator  back  to  her  office,  Walrod  turned 
to  Davenport  with  a  grin. 

"As  game  a  pair  of  banties  as  I  ever  see.  I'd  give 
the  half  of  this  fee,  though,  to  see  Volley  Congreve's 
face  when  that  little  lady  announces  herself  as  Mrs. 
James  Starkweather  Collie." 

"I'd  give  ten  times  that  fee  if  I  hadn't  been  within 
a  hundred  miles  of  your  marriage-shop  to-night,"  said 
Davenport. 

"Well,  there's  no  use  in  beefin'  now,"  said  Norman, 
cheerfully,  as  he  tucked  the  bill  away  in  his  vest-pocket. 
"The  deed  is  did." 

"Yes,  and  people  will  wonder  how  I  happened  to  be 
so  handy." 

"Damn  the  people!     I  never  knowed  you  to  be  so 
thin-skinned  before." 
33 


XLIV 

IT  was  the  marital  duty  of  Pontiac  Jones,  county 
clerk,  to  convey  to  Mrs.  Jones  such  noteworthy 
news  as  came  to  his  ears,  professionally  or  otherwise. 
Therefore,  when  he  returned  to  his  house,  after  having 
been  called  to  the  front  door  at  nine  o'clock  at  night 
and  taken  over  to  the  court-house,  he  informed  his 
waiting  and  curious  wife  that  he  had  granted  a  marriage 
license  to  James  Collie  and  Bertha  Congreve.  Mrs. 
Jones  promptly  threw  a  shawl  over  her  head  and  ran 
over  to  tell  Mrs.  Lewis.  .  Mrs.  Lewis  chanced  to  have 
company  —  three  ladies  —  and  each  of  these  ladies 
chanced  to  live  in  a  different  neighborhood  in  Tellfair. 
Thus  the  story  was  started  on  what  may  be  called  the 
home,  back-yard,  or  unofficial  route. 

It  was  the  legal  duty  of  Mr.  Jones  to  post  on  the  walls 
of  his  office  the  names  of  all  parties  to  whom  a  marriage 
license  had  been  granted.  This  Pontiac  did  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning.  Half  an  hour  later,  old  Nabor 
Heffner,  thumping  around  the  court-house  with  his  cane 
after  his  daily  batch  of  gossip,  saw  the  notice.  Doubt- 
ing his  eyes,  he  fumbled  for  his  spectacles,  put  them 
tremblingly  on,  scanned  the  paper  for  a  full  minute  at 
an  eight-inch  range,  and  then  turned  and  gazed  over 
the  top  of  his  spectacles  at  Pontiac  Jones's  back  for 
another  full  minute. 

"Say,  Pont!     Is  this  a  joke?" 

Mr.  Jones  finished  the  entry  he  was  making,  launched 
a  liberal  quantity  of  tobacco- juice  towards  a  brown 

354 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

earthenware  spittoon  the  size  of  a  small  tub,  and  then 
swung  around  in  his  swivel-chair,  quite  red  in  the  face. 

"Say,  Heffner,  do  you  suppose  for  a  minute  that  this 
county  elected  me  to  office  to  play  jokes?  Now  let  me 
tell  you,  once  for  all,  Heffner,  that  whenever  you  see  any- 
thing on  that  wall,  with  my  name  under  it,  you  can 
bank  on  it.  And  whenever — " 

But  Heffner  had  already  gone,  stamp!  stamp!  stamp! 
down  the  hall,  with  unwonted  speed.  He  stopped  an 
instant  at  the  register  of  deeds'  office  to  announce  the 
news,  and  also  stuck  his  head  into  the  sheriff's  office, 
but  no  one  was  there.  Then  he  made  his  way  rapidly 
down  Main  Street,  discharging  his  news  at  everybody 
within  range,  and  even  bawling  it  across  the  street,  but 
losing  no  time.  He  stopped  momentarily  at  the  post- 
office,  at  Feversham's  drug  store,  at  Hemingway's  gro- 
cery store,  the  bank,  Hinckley's,  and  one  or  two  other 
places,  until  at  last  he  brought  up  at  Harmon's  shoe- 
shop,  the  last  place  of  business  on  the  street. 

Thus  the  story  was  started  on  what  may  be  called  the 
down -town,  commercial,  or  official  route.  Travelling 
these  two  routes,  a  collision  was  inevitable  at  more 
than  one  dinner-table  that  day,  the  husband  with  one 
version,  the  wife  with  the  other. 

There  was  no  collision  at  the  manse  table,*  however, 
for  Mr.  Bowman,  shut  in  his  study  all  morning  and 
wrestling  with  an  advanced  thought  on  predestination, 
had  heard  no  echo  from  the  outside  world.  He  brought 
his  abstraction  to  the  table  with  him,  and  received  the 
startling  news  from  Alice  almost  without  comment. 
She  was  disappointed,  of  course,  but  not  hopeless. 

"That  disposes  of  your  theory,"  she  ventured,  with  a 
sly  little  laugh. 

The  theory  she  referred  to  was  that  Bertha  secretly 
loved  Davenport;  but  Alice  did  not  wish  to  be  any 
plainer  before  ten-year-old  David,  who  had  a  habit  of 

355 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

soaking  up  a  great  deal  of  conversation  to  which  he  was 
apparently  oblivious.  He  was  at  present  struggling  with 
a  piece  of  Tellfair  County  native  beef,  and  held  his  fork 
in  his  fist  like  a  dagger. 

"  Hold  your  fork  right,  David,"  said  his  father,  briefly. 
"How  many  times  shall  I  have  to  tell  you  about  that?" 
He  wasn't  in  the  best  of  humor,  and  he  had  cut  the  steak 
and  served  the  mashed  potatoes  with  something  like 
asperity. 

"I'm  afraid  the  steak  is  tough,"  said  Alice,  in  behalf 
of  the  boy. 

"  It's  robbery  to  sell  a  man  meat  like  this."  said  Bow- 
man, crossly.  "If  I  could  do  it  without  kicking  up  a 
row  in  the  church,  I'd  refuse  to  buy  another  ounce  from 
that  man  Stark,  and  tell  him  plainly  the  reason  why. 
Who  told  you  about  Bertha?" 

"  Mrs.  Beaumont.  She  brought  in  some  tea  she  had 
borrowed." 

"That  accounts  for  the  green  tea  instead  of  black,  I 
suppose,"  he  observed,  glancing  at  his  cup.  He  did  not 
like  green  tea.  "  I  don't  know  that  it  upsets  any  of  my 
theories.  I  still  believe  there  was  an  attachment  in 
that  quarter.  It  was  not  reciprocated,  towards  the  end, 
for  some  reason,  and  this  is  the  result." 

"Arthur,  you  don't  mean  that!"  she  expostulated. 
"That  is  doing  Morris  a  gross  injustice.  He  never  re- 
ciprocated it." 

"That  is  your  opinion,  Alice,"  said  he,  dryly.  "Mine 
is  that  he  did." 

When  he  adopted  that  tone,  long  experience  had 
taught  Alice  that  further  argument  would  be  vain;  and 
she  now  dropped  the  subject  with  a  grace  that  might 
have  made  an  angel  envious. 

After-dinner  events  did  not  improve  Mr.  Bowman's 
temper.  Just  before  he  left  the  house  for  his  round 
of  afternoon  calls,  the  bell  rang,  and  Bradley  Hayford 

356 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

was  ushered  into  the  sitting-room.  Unwelcome  or 
questionable  callers  on  the  pastor  were  always  diverted 
there,  from  which  point  they  could  be  more  easily  dis- 
missed. Others  were  taken  up-stairs  to  the  study. 

"  Elder,"  began  the  horseman,  in  his  straight-from-the- 
shoulder  style,  "if  you  can  let  me  have  that  money  you 
owe  me,  within  a  day  or  two,  I'd  appreciate  it.  I  don't 
want  to  push  you,  but  I  need  it.  I'm  buying  a  farm 
west  of  town — the  old  Stockbridge  place — and  I'm  scrap- 
ing together  all  the  cash  I  can  to  make  a  first  payment 
on  it." 

Bowman  knit  his  brows.  In  his  heart  he  thought  it 
a  piece  of  impudence  for  a  man  able  to  buy  a  thirty- 
thousand-dollar  stock-farm  to  dun  a  poor  minister  for 
two  hundred  dollars. 

"It  will  be  very  inconvenient  for  me  to  raise  the 
money  just  at  this  time,  Hayford,"  said  he. 

"The  note's  overdue  two  months  now,"  suggested 
the  other,  mildly. 

"  I'm  aware  of  that,"  answered  Bowman,  loftily,  "  and 
you  can't  regret  it  any  more  than  I  do.  It's  very  em- 
barrassing to  me  to  have  a  thing  of  this  kind  outstand- 
ing; but  I  am  entirely  dependent  upon  my  salary,  and 
it  is  not  large,  as  you  probably  know." 

"Any  objection  to  my  discounting  the  note  at  the 
bank?  Shaw's  a  pillar  in  your  church,  and  I  suppose 
he'd  be  glad  to  accommodate  you  in  that  way,  although 
he  don't  hanker  after  overdue  paper  as  a  rule." 

Bowman  would  have  liked  to  throttle  the  man,  al- 
though it  is  not  at  all  certain  that  Hayford  meant  to  be 
insulting.  But  throttling  was  against  Bowman's  prin- 
ciples, in  the  first  place,  and  in  the  second  place  Hay- 
ford's  bull  neck  did  not  look  as  if  it  would  throttle 
easily. 

"I  certainly  should  object  to  your  discounting  it  at 
the  bank,"  he  answered.  "The  fact  that  Mr.  Shaw  is 

357 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

a  member  of  my  church  makes  me  more  reluctant,  if 
anything,  to  having  it  taken  there.  I  aim  to  keep  my 
private  and  official  affairs  entirely  separate.  Besides, 
when  I  gave  you  the  note  it  was  distinctly  under- 
stood that  it  should  not  be  offered  at  the  bank  for 
discount." 

Hayford's  pale-blue  eyes  filled  with  an  ugly  light. 

"I  suppose  it  was  just  as  distinctly  understood  that 
it  would  be  paid  when  due,"  said  he. 

"  If  you  feel  that  way  about  it,  Mr.  Hayford,"  said  the 
preacher,  promptly,  "  I  shall  pay  it  at  once,  at  any 
cost.  If  you  will  call  here  to-morrow  afternoon  at  two 
o'clock  you  will  find  your  money  waiting."  And  he 
moved  suggestively  towards  the  door.  Hayford  arose. 

"You  got  the  money  at  the  stable.  Maybe  it  would 
be  just  as  well  to  pay  it  back  there.  I'll  be  there  at  two 
o'clock." 

"Very  well,"  said  Bowman,  smoothly.  But  he  was 
white  with  anger. 

He  was  in  no  mood  now  for  pastoral  calls,  and  he  re- 
turned to  his  study.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  ask 
Lucius  Shaw  for  the  money  to  take  up  the  note  with,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  he  aimed  to  keep  his  private  and 
official  affairs  separate.  Shaw  was  not  only  a  member 
of  Bowman's  church,  but  also  one  of  his  elders.  The 
board  was  to  meet  that  night  to  consider  the  purchase 
of  a  piano  for  the  Sunday-school  room,  in  place  of  the 
wheezy  old  organ  which  had  been  moved  out  of  the 
auditorium  when  the  pipe-organ  was  put  in.  After  the 
meeting,  Bowman  would  have  a  good  opportunity  to 
lay  the  matter  of  a  loan  before  the  banker. 

The  day  proved  an  evil  one  throughout,  however,  for 
Arthur  Bowman.  The  board  divided  on  the  piano 
question,  and,  to  the  minister's  surprise  and  chagrin, 
Lucius  Shaw,  apostle  of  progress  and  spirit  of  enter- 
prise, lined  up  with  the  conservatives  and  bluntly  an- 

358 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

nounced   himself  as  content  with  the  present  instru- 
ment. 

"I  gleaned  from  our  conversation  the  other  day, 
Brother  Shaw,  that  you  favored  a  piano,"  observed 
Bowman,  mildly. 

"I  perhaps  gave  that  impression,"  answered  the 
banker.  "  In  fact,  I  did  lean  to  that  opinion  then.  But 
the  Sunday-school  room  needs  a  new  carpet  and  it  needs 
plastering,  and  I  think  the  money  had  better  be  spent 
for  one  or  the  other  of  these,  or  both,  than  for  a  piano.  I 
don't  see  anything  very  wrong  with  that  organ.  We 
got  along  with  it  for  years  in  the  main  room." 

"This  is  an  age  of  progress,  Lucius,"  said  one  of  the 
members,  jocosely.  He  did  not  care  much  which  way 
the  issue  went. 

"There  is  another  thing  to  be  considered, "continued 
the  minister.  "Miss  Catlin  says  that  pumping  the 
organ  is  very  exhausting  work — the  bellows  are  in  bad 
shape  and  seem  to  be  beyond  repair — and  she  has  in- 
timated that  if  we  don't  get  a  piano  very  soon  she  will 
have  to  give  up  her  position  as  organist." 

"I  think  her  place  could  be  filled,"  returned  Shaw, 
with  provoking  indifference. 

"I  am  not  so  sure  about  that.  Miss  Catlin  has  been 
very  faithful.  She  has  considerable  talent,  and  has 
been  very  successful  in  working  with  the  children  on 
special  occasions.  I  feel  as  though  her  wishes  were 
entitled  to  some  consideration." 

"Undoubtedly,"  said  Shaw,  in  a  tone  which  implied 
that  they  were  not.  "If  Miss  Catlin  wishes  a  rest,  I 
think  my  daughter  Amelia  could  be  induced  to  take  the 
place — for  a  time,  at  least.  She  isn't  anxious  for  the 
work,  of  course,"  he  added,  smiling,  as  if  nobody  were 
anxious  for  church-work,  "and  she  hasn't  Miss  Catlin's 
talent — perhaps.  But  I  fancy  she  could  fill  the  position 
acceptably." 

359 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

Arthur  Bowman  was  of  the  opinion,  privately,  that 
Elizabeth  Catlin  would  work  her  legs  off  on  the  old 
organ's  pedals  before  she  would  resign  in  favor  of 
Amelia  Shaw,  but  this  was  not  the  time  and  place  to 
say  so.  Then  old  Mr.  Feversham,  Tom's  father,  spoke 
up,  running  his  fingers  through  his  long,  snowy  hair. 

"I  fear  it  would  create  feeling,  Lucius,  if  we  were  to 
make  a  change  in  organists  now." 

"But  if  Miss  Catlin  resigns?"  asked  Shaw,  compla- 
cently. 

"I  think,  with  our  minister,  that  her  wishes  are  en- 
titled to  some  respect,  and  that  we  ought  not  to  virt- 
ually force  her  to  resign,"  answered  the  aged  peace- 
maker. "She  has  played  in  the  Sunday-school  since 
she  was  fifteen  years  old,  and  a  tenure  of  that  length 
of  time  cannot  be  lightly  set  aside." 


XLV 

IT  was  finally  decided  to  leave  the  matter  to  a  vote. 
The  vote  resulted  in  a  tie,  throwing  the  issue  into 
the  minister's  hands,  who  otherwise  would  have  had  no 
vote.  He  glanced  over  the  board.  If  Davenport  had 
been  there,  he  reflected,  as  he  ought  to  have  been,  his 
vote  would  have  gone  for  the  piano,  there  would  have 
been  no  tie,  and  he  (Bowman)  would  have  escaped  an 
exceedingly  trying  position.  To  side  with  Shaw  would 
make  the  pastor's  loan  certain  and  easy ;  to  side  against 
him  might  jeopardize  the  loan,  and  would  certainly 
make  it  embarrassing.  Yet  his  duty  was  clear,  and  he 
did  not  hesitate.  After  saying  that  if  Mr.  Shaw  and 
his  colleagues  could  be  in  the  Sunday-school  room  as 
much  as  he  was,  he  believed  they  would  take  a  dif- 
ferent view  of  the  question,  he  added  that  he  felt  con- 
strained to  vote  for  the  piano. 

Shaw  arose  with  an  acrid  smile,  and  buttoned  his  coat. 

"That  settles  it.  I  abide  by  the  majority's  wish.  The 
little  children  can  now  go  on  for  another  year  or  two 
stubbing  their  toes  in  the  holes  in  the  carpet  and  oc- 
casionally getting  a  piece  of  plaster  on  their  heads  to 
keep  them  awake." 

This  was  certainly  ungracious.  Rather  than  ask  him 
for  a  loan  after  that,  Arthur  Bowman  would  have  gone 
to  prison.  But  the  money  had  to  be  got  somewhere, 
and  that  quickly.  The  next  morning  he  climbed  Daven- 
port's stairs,  rather  slowly.  He  had  borrowed  money 
of  Davenport  before,  and  without  the  least  trouble.  He 

361 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

had  no  doubt  he  could  do  so  now.  Yet  for  some  reason 
it  went  against  the  grain  this  time,  and  he  would  almost 
as  soon  have  gone  to  Lucius  Shaw.  He  paused  at  the 
outer  door  an  instant,  wondering  if  Miss  Priestley  had 
ever  been  imprudent  enough  to  tell  Davenport  of  the 
advice  he  had  once  given  her,  one  Sunday  after  church. 
Another  thing,  he  had  never  noticed  his  heart  flutter 
so  after  climbing  a  flight  of  stairs.  He  must  have  a 
touch  of  indigestion. 

"Hello!"  said  Davenport,  familiarly.  "I  was  just 
beginning  to  think  that  you  had  crossed  me  off  your 
visiting-list.  Take  that  rocking-chair." 

Davenport  was  by  no  means  a  shy  man,  but  he  could 
never  bring  himself  to  call  his  pastor  "Arthur."  And 
as  "Mr.  Bowman"  would  have  sounded  stiff,  consider- 
ing their  intimacy  and  nearly  equal  ages,  and  "  Bow- 
man" a  little  impertinent,  he  usually  called  him  noth- 
ing, and  made  good  the  omission  by  an  added  familiarity. 
Occasionally,  though,  he  jocularly  called  him  "Elder." 
At  the  same  time  he  did  not  hesitate  to  call  Mrs.  Bow- 
man, whom  he  had  known  for  years,  "Alice." 

They  talked  at  random.  The  meeting  of  the  board 
of  elders  came  up.  Bowman  expressed  his  regret  at 
Davenport's  absence,  and  Davenport  explained  that  he 
had  spent  the  previous  day  in  Freeport,  and  did  not  get 
back  until  a  late  hour  —  nearly  one  o'clock.  Then  a 
pause. 

"Morris,  I  need  some  money,"  said  Bowman. 

"Not  a  strikingly  original  need,"  answered  Daven- 
port, amiably,  as  he  sharpened  a  pencil.  "How  much 
do  you  need?" 

He  knew  pretty  certainly  before  he  asked,  for  Hay- 
ford  was  not  close-mouthed  when  he  felt  aggrieved,  as 
perhaps  few  men  are.  But,  then,  Davenport's  knowl- 
edge of  private  affairs  would  have  astounded  a  great 
many  people. 

362 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Two  hundred  dollars." 

Davenport  reached  for  his  check-book. 

"Perhaps  you  would  prefer  it  in  currency,"  said  he, 
pausing. 

"I  would,  yes,  if  you  have  that  much  about."  He 
would  rather  not  have  cashed  one  of  Davenport's 
checks  at  the  bank  for  such  an  amount. 

"I  haven't  it,  but  I  can  get  it." 

He  wrote  out  a  check  and  stepped  down  to  the  bank 
with  it  himself  instead  of  sending  his  stenographer — 
another  piece  of  delicacy  not  lost  on  the  minister.  Yet 
somehow  his  gratitude  refused  to  rise. 

"  If  you'll  give  me  a  blank  note,  Morris,  I'll  fill  it  out," 
said  he,  on  Davenport's  return.  "I  don't  know  when 
I  shall  be  able  to  pay  this  back,  but — " 

"Never  mind  a  note,"  answered  Davenport,  careless- 
ly. "Just  write  on  that  slip  of  paper,  'Due  Morris 
Davenport,  two  hundred  dollars,'  and  sign  your  name." 

Bowman  had  fancied  that  the  lawyer  would  refuse 
any  written  evidence  of  the  debt,  as  he  had  in  former 
instances.  He  was  therefore  slightly  piqued  at  Daven- 
port's accepting  it,  even  in  this  informal  way.  Yet  he 
could  not  repress  a  feeling  of  admiration  for  the  man 
before  him — so  frank,  so  prompt,  so  quietly  generous; 
On  the  heels  of  this  emotion,  though,  came  one  less 
commendable.  It  was  something  akin  to  envy.  Bow- 
man was  not  of  Davenport's  fibre.  He  knew  that  he 
could  not  have  made  money  if  he  had  tried;  that  he 
could  not  mix  with  men  in  the  way  Davenport  mixed. 
He  knew  that  he  lacked  physical  courage.  He  also 
lacked  that  fearlessness  of  failure  without  which  there 
can  be  no  real  success  for  a  man.  Lastly,  he  lacked 
that  rush  of  life  which  made  Davenport  glory  in  con- 
flict, not  for  the  spoils  it  might  bring,  but  for  the  pure 
love  of  conflict. 

Bowman  did  not  forget  his  own  powers  —  his  in- 

363 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

sight  into  the  human  heart,  an  almost  feminine  tact,  a 
perfect  self-control,  and  an  almost  total  absence  of  prej- 
udice. But  at  the  best,  he  reflected,  moodily,  he  was 
only  a  fox  while  Davenport  was  a  lion.  In  which,  of 
course,  he  did  himself  and  others  like  him  an  injustice. 

"Here  are  some  very  interesting  papers — to  me,"  ob- 
served Davenport,  sociably,  taking  them  up.  "They 
are  the  abstract  and  deed  of  the  Holbrook  farm,  out  in 
Turtle  township.  I  bought  the  farm  on  Tuesday,  held 
it  two  days,  sold  it  on  Thursday,  and  made  two  thou- 
sand dollars." 

Bowman  started. 

"That's  more  money  than  I  make  in  a  year,"  said  he. 

"It's  more  than  I  usually  make  in  two  days,"  an- 
swered Morris,  laughing.  Perhaps  he  was  not  wholly 
blind  to  the  operations  going  on  behind  Bowman's  high, 
white,  scholarly  forehead,  and  rather  enjoyed  the  sit- 
uation. 

"It's  easy  money  for  you,  Morris,  but  somebody 
sweat  for  it,"  the  minister  could  not  help  saying. 

"Yes,  I  have  thought  of  that,"  said  Davenport.  "  But 
with  me  it's  come  easy,  go  easy." 

"In  that  case  I  don't  know  that  you  could  do  better 
than  let  fifty  dollars  of  it  go  towards  the  piano  for 
the  Sunday-school,"  suggested  Bowman,  only  half  in 
earnest. 

"I'll  do  it,"  said  Davenport,  and  wrote  Bowman  a 
check  for  the  amount.  "  But  did  you  ever  stop  to 
think  just  who  it  was  that  sweat  for  that  money? 
Not  the  man  who  has  just  bought  the  farm,  for  he  will 
make  money  on  the  investment.  Not  Holbrook,  who 
has  just  sold  the  farm,  for  he  bought  the  land  for  thirty 
dollars  an  acre  and  sold  it  for  a  hundred,  and  has  lived 
off  it  for  a  quarter  of  a  century  besides,  and  lived  well. 
Not  the  first  white  man  that  owned  it,  for  he  got  the 
tract  and  thousands  of  acres  besides  from  the  Indians 

364 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

for  a  barrel  of  cheap  whiskey.     Not  the  Indians,  for 
they  never  did  anything  for  it  except  to  hunt  over  it." 

"I  should  say  the  people  who  sweat  for  that  money 
were  the  laborers  who  have  worked  on  the  land  all  these 
years  and  improved  it." 

"No,  for  they  received  a  due  wage  for  their  labor. 
Now  I'll  tell  you  who  it  was.  Not  to  go  back  too  far, 
it  was  the  people  who  made  the  State  of  Illinois,  guar- 
anteeing protection  to  life  and  property.  It  was  the 
people  who  built  the  cities  of  this  and  neighboring  States, 
creating  a  market  for  the  wheat  and  corn  and  stock 
which  came  off  that  farm.  It  was  the  railroads  which 
made  it  possible  to  carry  this  wheat  and  corn  and  stock 
to  a  market.  It  was  the  men  who  made  the  steel  which 
made  the  railroads  possible.  These  people,  thousands 
upon  thousands  in  number,  sweat  for  that  money  as  I 
see  it." 

"Then  why  not  divide  it  among  them?"  asked  Bow- 
man. 

"  It  will  be  divided  among  them,  in  a  way — the  only 
way,  really,  because  a  literal  division  would  mean  less 
than  a  penny  apiece  and  benefit  nobody.  Suppose  I 
spend  the  two  thousand  dollars  I  have  made  just  as 
selfishly  as  I  know  how,  and  buy  a  blooded  race-horse 
with  it.  The  money  goes  to  the  stock-breeder  first.  He 
parcels  it  out  in  a  dozen,  a  hundred  quarters — to  the 
railroad,  to  farmers,  to  his  hired  men,  to  the  county  and 
State  for  taxes,  to  his  butcher  and  baker,  his  wife's 
dressmaker,  and  so  on.  They  each,  in  turn,  parcel  it 
out  again  in  as  many  more  quarters." 

"But  you  have  the  horse." 

" Certainly.  But  what  real  good  does  he  do  me?  Be- 
sides, he  is  paid  for.  Every  man  who  has  helped,  in  the 
most  indirect  way,  to  raise  him,  has  been  rewarded. 
Here's  another  thought.  If  there  hadn't  been  a  man 
rich  enough  to  accumulate  two  thousand  dollars,  like 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

myself,  that  race -horse  would  have  been  impossible; 
and  all  the  people  who  helped  to  make  him  possible 
would  have  had  to  work  at  something  else.  This  would 
have  thrown  them  into  competition  with  another  and 
lower  class  of  laborers,  and  everybody,  all  around,  would 
have  been  worse  off." 

His  hazel  eyes  gleamed  good-naturedly,  and  it  was 
hard  to  say  whether  he  was  entirely  in  earnest  or  not. 
Bowman  laughed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  rose. 

"The  community  has  imposed  upon  you,  I  see,  by 
making  you  an  involuntary  trustee  of  its  funds,  as  it 
were."  At  the  door  he  added,  in  the  same  jocular  vein, 
tinged  with  irony,  "It  seems  to  me  that  you  might 
have  had  enough  influence  with  your  ex-stenographer 
to  throw  her  marriage  my  way." 

"  Could  you  have  married  her  with  a  clear  conscience?" 

"You  witnessed  it  with  a  clear  conscience,  didn't  you? 
I  fear,  though,"  he  added,  more  seriously,  "that  what 
she  thinks  is  love  will  turn  out  to  be  only  a  passing 
fancy." 

"That's  a  question,  elder,"  said  Davenport,  owlishly. 
"A  woman's  heart  isn't  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world 
to  fathom.  Sometimes  she  is  in  love  when  you  think 
she  isn't,  and  sometimes  she  isn't  when  you  think  she  is. 
Ever  notice  that?" 

"Oh  yes,"  answered  the  minister,  evasively,  hastily 
opening  the  door.  Again  he  wondered  if  Josephine  had 
been  indiscreet  and  told  Davenport  things  she  had  bet- 
ter have  kept  to  herself. 


XLVI 

HALF  an  hour  later,  Mr.  Bowman  sat  in  the  Priest- 
leys'  sitting-room,  toasting  his  thick  soles  before 
a  brisk  fire  in  the  grate.  Josephine  had  seen  him  pass 
the  house,  rather  slowly,  and  go  into  Catlin's.  Five 
minutes  later  he  repassed  the  house.  When  he  hove 
into  sight  the  third  time,  she  was  rather  curious,  and 
still  more  so  when  he  turned  into  her  gate. 

He  did  not  explain  his  hesitancy  at  entering,  and,  if  he 
had  any  business,  he  let  it  wait.  He  merely  asked  how 
Victoria  was,  and,  after  apologizing  for  his  morning  call, 
told  Josephine  that  he  had  been  over  to  Catlin's  to  ap- 
prise Elizabeth  that  the  Sunday-school  piano  was  a 
certainty.  Josephine  felt  that  he  had  come  to  say 
something  about  Bertha's  marriage — perhaps  to  justify 
the  warning  he  had  given  her.  Just  how  he  could  do 
that  she  did  not  see. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  work  in  the  Sunday-school,  Miss 
Josephine  ?"  asked  Bowman,  while  on  the  subject.  "  You 
would  make  an  ideal  chorister,  and  that  is  something 
that  we  need  badly." 

Josephine  shook  her  head  promptly. 

"No,  thank  you." 

"Don't  you  feel  it  your  duty  to  take  a  more  active 
part  in  church- work?" 

"No.     If  I  did  I  should  take  it." 

"You  are  perfectly  satisfied  with  yourself  in  that 
respect?"  he  asked,  with  a  touch  of  sarcasm. 

"Perfectly." 

367 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

This  was  not  strictly  true;  but  she  and  the  Reverend 
Arthur  Bowman  had  fallen  into  a  habit  of  sparring  in 
this  way,  and  Truth  occasionally  got  an  accidental 
blow. 

Bowman  stretched  out  a  long  leg  towards  the  fire,  and 
settled  in  his  chair.  It  was  a  comfortable  chair,  and 
his  attitude  looked  as  if  it  might  be  good  until  noon. 

"Miss  Josephine,"  said  he,  bringing  the  tips  of  his 
long,  white  fingers  together  and  smiling  significantly,  "  I 
am  conscious  of  just  the  slightest  friction  whenever  you 
and  I  meet  of  late." 

She  did  not  deny  it. 

"I  date  it,"  he  continued,  "from  the  day  that  I  took 
upon  myself  the  responsibility,  as  a  friend — rather  fool- 
ishly, perhaps — of  pointing  out  a  reef  in  the  course  you 
were  sailing." 

"  Only  it  wasn't  a  reef,  was  it?  Just  what  sailors  call 
a  wind-reef.,  wasn't  it,  and  laugh  at  land-lubbers  for 
getting  scared  at?" 

"I  had  every  reason  then  to  believe  that  there  was 
danger  in  your  course.  I  believe  yet,  in  spite  of  Ber- 
tha's marriage,  that  there  was  danger.  If  Davenport  had 
asked  her  to  marry  him  at  that  time,  she  would  have 
done  it  in  an  instant.  I  am  not  blaming  him,"  he  add- 
ed. Maybe  the  fat  roll  of  bills  in  his  pocket  burned  him. 
"Yet  I  do  think  that  he  unconsciously  encouraged  her; 
and  there  was  a  time,  before  you  came,  I  think,  when 
he  did  not  know  his  own  mind  on  that  subject." 

"Your  warning,  Mr.  Bowman,  did  not  alter  my  feel- 
ings towards  you  in  the  least,"  said  she.  It  was  evident 
that  she  did  not  mean  to  discuss  Davenport's  motives 
or  conduct. 

"What  did  alter  them,  then?"  he  asked. 

"  I  would  rather  not  say,  Mr.  Bowman,"  said  she.  "  It 
is  a  rather  embarrassing  theme  for  me.  I  don't  know 
that  discussing  it  would  do  either  of  us  any  good." 

368 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"  I  insist  on  your  telling  me.  I  have  a  right  to  know." 
He  could  tolerate  opposition  from  a  man,  after  a  fashion ; 
but  in  a  woman,  by  whom  his  ministerial  authority  was 
seldom  questioned,  it  was  insufferable. 

"You  have  no  such  right,"  said  she,  quietly.  "Yet, 
if  you  insist,  I'll  waive  that  and  tell  you.  I  don't 
think  it  will  make  you  any  happier,  or  us  any  better 
friends;  but  perhaps  it  is  just  as  well  for  you  to  know 
the  truth.  I  have  held  aloof  from  you  more  or  less 
because  I  saw  that  Alice  misunderstood  our  intimacy. 
Whenever  you  and  I  got  to  discussing  any  subject,  Alice 
was  usually  left  out;  not  because  she  couldn't  talk  as  well 
as  I,  but  simply  because  an  argument  is  a  little  vehicle 
in  which  only  two  can  ride  comfortably,  although  a  third 
can  be  stowed  in.  She  has  never  said  a  word  to  me 
about  this,  and  she'd  die  before  she  would;  but  I  saw 
that  she  was  bothered.  She  felt  that  whenever  I  was 
present  with  you  and  her,  she  had  to  take  a  position  in 
the  background.  And  it  was  true.  I  think  you  will 
admit  that  we  did  argue  too  much.  She  is  the  dearest 
little  woman  in  the  world;  I  love  her,  and  I  wouldn't 
give  her  pain,  or  have  anything  come  between  us,  for 
anything  on  earth." 

"My  dear  young  woman,  you  were  never  more  mis- 
taken in  your  life,"  exclaimed  Bowman,  relieved  to  find 
that  the  trouble  was  nothing  more  serious  than  this. 
"  My  wife  realizes  that  I  am  a  public  man.  She  knows 
that  very  often  it  is  my  duty  to  steer  conversation  away 
from  trivial  or  conventional  subjects,  and  give  it  a  turn 
which  will  exclude  anything  like  general  participation 
in  it.  On  such  occasions  she  is  perfectly  willing  to  stand 
aside.  Really,  you  do  her  an  injustice.  And  you  have 
frightened  yourself  with  a  bugbear  besides."  He  locked 
his  fingers  behind  his  black,  glossy  hair,  which  was  a 
little  too  long  to  look  neat,  and  smiled  complacently. 
"  If  that  is  all  that  has  come  between  us — " 
»4  369 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

He  paused  an  instant  as  the  hall  door  opened  and  some 
one  stepped  into  the  front  room.  Josephine  supposed 
it  was  Miss  Hunter,  the  nurse,  and  hoped  for  a  diversion 
which  would  send  her  spiritual  adviser  on  his  way.  But 
she  waited  for  him  to  finish. 

"If  that  is  all  that  has  come  between  us,"  he  con- 
cluded, "we  can  be  good  friends  once  more." 

He  said  it  in  a  round,  penetrating,  pulpit  tone.  The 
next  instant  Alice  Bowman's  sweet,  thin  face  parted  the 
portieres.  She  might  have  been  a  little  paler  than 
usual.  Josephine's  heart  gave  one  great  leap.  If  Alice 
could  only  have  heard  some  other  words — or  all  the 
other  words!  If  Mr.  Bowman  had  only  been  making 
an  afternoon  instead  of  a  morning  call!  If  he  had  not 
sunk  quite  so  low  in  his  chair,  and  had  not  looked  so 
comfortable,  so  much  at  home! 

Alice  carried  a  dish  covered  with  a  napkin,  and  Jose- 
phine hastened  to  relieve  her  of  it. 

"Some  tapioca  pudding  for  Victoria,"  said  Alice,  sim- 
ply. "  I  am  quite  sure  it  won't  hurt  her." 

Bowman  arose,  without  haste  or  confusion,  at  the 
sound  of  his  wife's  voice.  Josephine  admired  him,  for 
once,  for  his  self-control. 

"Hello,  Ally!  On  my  trail  again?  Well,  I  can  give 
a  good  account  of  myself.  See  what  I've  got!"  He 
stepped  playfully  behind  her  and,  with  an  arm  on  each 
of  her  shoulders,  he  stretched  Davenport's  fifty-dollar 
check  before  her  eyes.  "For  the  new  piano.  At  that 
rate  we  can  have  a  piano  and  a  new  carpet,  too.  I  just 
came  from  Elizabeth's." 

"I  suppose  she  is  happy?" 

"Perfectly  delighted."  " 

"  How  good  of  Morris!"  she  murmured. 

She  was  undoubtedly  pleased,  but  her  voice  lacked 
spontaneity,  Josephine  fancied.  Besides,  Bowman  was 
overplaying  his  part,  just  a  little,  she  thought,  and  she 

37° 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

was  relieved  when  he  seized  his  hat  and  hurried  off,  sud- 
denly remembering  that  the  golden  morning  hours  were 
slipping  away  unimproved. 

"I  might  have  gone  with  him,"  said  Alice.  "I  can't 
stay  but  a  minute." 

"  Oh,  you  must  run  up-stairs  and  say  hello  to  Victoria. 
She  is  feeling  so  much  better  this  morning.  It  was  very 
sweet  and  thoughtful  of  you,  Alice,  to  bring  in  the 
tapioca." 

They  went  up  to  Victoria.  Afterwards,  Josephine  got 
out  a  song  which  she  was  to  sing  at  the  Christmas  en- 
tertainment at  the  church,  and  sang  it  for  Alice.  After 
that  she  got  out  a  big  pasteboard  box  full  of  little  things 
she  had  made  for  Christmas  gifts — dainty  white  aprons, 
handkerchiefs,  handkerchief -cases,  sofa -pillow  covers, 
pin  -  cushions,  and  other  things  dear  to  the  feminine 
heart — and  showed  them  to  Alice  with  a  running  fire 
of  comment. 

"This  is  for  Delphine  Delaroche,  the  one  who  I  told 
you  broke  her  engagement  the  day  before  she  was  to 
have  been  married,  and  married  another  man,  an  old 
sweetheart,  within  a  week.  It  sounds  terrible,  I  know, 
but  if  you  only  knew  her  you  would  understand.  She'll 
know  that  we  are  very  poor  when  she  gets  only  this,  but 
she'll  love  me  just  as  much  as  when  I  sent  her  a  brooch 
of  pearls  two  years  ago.  These  handkerchiefs  are  for 
her  sister  Louise.  Two  years  ago  about  a  dozen  families 
of  us  had  a  Christmas-tree,  and  Louise  put  an  immense 
rag-baby  on  for  me.  I  had  it  a  week  before  I  found  out 
that  it  was  made  out  of  a  pair  of  the  most  beautiful  im- 
ported night-gowns.  Don't  you  think  this  is  pretty — 
not  the  workmanship — that's  wretched — but  the  color 
and  design?  It's  the  first  I  ever  made,  and  I  know  you 
would  like  to  laugh.  These  I  haven't  decided  on.  I 
think  I'll  give  Mother  Shipman  one.  I'll  have  to  give 
Miss  Hunter  and  Mrs.  Brannigan  something,  too — they 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

have  been  so  faithful.  I  want  to  give  each  of  my  pupils 
something,  too — just  some  little  thing  to  show  that  I  re- 
membered them.  Those  brushes  are  for  Jean.  He's 
such  a  neat  old  man,  always  brushing  his  clothes.  You 
can't  see  what  is  wrapped  in  this  paper,  but  if  you  are 
real  good  you  may  some  time,  maybe." 

She  opened  another  box  full  of  laces,  delicate  white 
fabrics,  silks,  ribbons,  and  so  on. 

"  Poor  Victoria!  She  had  just  got  started  on  her  pres- 
ents when  she  was  taken  sick.  I  have  finished  some 
of  them,  but  of  course  I  couldn't  find  time  for  all.  Be- 
sides, she  wanted  to  do  them  herself.  That  is  the  only 
thing  that  gives  them  any  value,  of  course.  She's  doing 
a  little  at  them  now,  but  Miss  Hunter  sees  that  it  is  a 
very  little.  She  even  tries  to  stop  me.  We  have  both 
come  to  love  her,  she  is  so  watchful  and  sympathetic. 
Both  her  parents  are  dead,  too." 

"You  poor  dear!"  said  Alice,  affectionately.  "When 
did  you  ever  find  time  to  do  all  this?  You  mustn't  try 
to  remember  everybody.  They  don't  expect  it.  They 
don't  make  as  much  of  Christmas  here  in  the  North, 
Arthur  says,  as  they  do  in  the  South." 

But  something  was  lacking  through  it  all.  They  both 
talked  too  fluently,  were  both  too  eager.  In  the  hall 
they  instinctively  paused.  It  was  the  first  time  they 
had  ever  tried  to  deceive  each  other,  and  both  were 
suffering  and  loath  to  part. 

"Alice,  something  has  come  between  us,"  said  Jose- 
phine, frankly. 

Alice's  sensitive  nostrils  quivered. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  dear,  for  saying  it!  I  didn't  have 
the  courage.  I  overheard  what  Arthur  said  about  your 
being  friends  again.  I  know  it  meant  nothing.  I  have 
too  much  faith  in  both  of  you.  But  I  knew  that  it 
wasn't  meant  for  my  ears,  and  that  you  both  knew  that 
I  had  overheard  it,  and,  to  save  my  life,  Josie,  I  couldn't 

37? 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

be  natural.  I  was  afraid  you  might  think  that  I 
wouldn't  understand.  So  I  went  out  of  my  way  to  show 
you  that  I  did  understand.  But  it's  all  right  now." 

"And  I  went  out  of  my  way  to  show  you  that  I  wasn't 
afraid  that  you  wouldn't  understand." 

She  drew  the  slender  little  woman  to  her  and  kissed 
her,  and  for  a  moment  they  stood  cheek  to  cheek — rose 
and  lily — the  tears  trickling  down  their  faces.  But  Jose- 
phine meant  to  go  on  and  make  a  clean  breast  of  it. 

"When  you  stepped  in,  Alice,  we  were — " 

"Please  don't  tell  me!"  exclaimed  Alice.  "I  want  to 
take  you  on  trust — I  want  to  show  you  that  I  can.  If 
you  tell  me  I  shall  think  you  are  afraid  that  I  can't." 

"Then  I  won't  tell  you." 

"Do  you  think — do  you  think  that  Arthur  suspected 
anything?"  asked  Alice,  wiping  away  the  last  of  the 
tears.  "  He  has  such  a  horror  of  a  jealous  woman,  and 
I  have  tried  so  hard  to  show  him  that  I  am  not — 
though  I  am  dreadfully  afraid  that  I  am.  But  you 
don't  think  I  am,  do  you?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.     I  couldn't  love  you  if  you  were." 

"  But  if  Arthur  attempts  to  explain  I  shall  know  that 
he  thinks — well,  it  will  hurt  me  awfully." 

"You  mustn't  be  so  sensitive.  I  don't  think  he  will 
attempt  to  explain.  But  if  he  does,  it  will  simply  be  a 
proof  of  his  trust  in  you.  He  wouldn't  take  the  trouble 
to  explain  to  a  jealous  woman." 

"I'd  sooner  have  him  show  his  trust  in  some  other 
way,"  said  Alice,  smiling. 

After  Mrs.  Bowman  had  gone,  Josephine  stood  at  the 
front  door  for  a  moment,  thinking.  Then  she  stepped 
quickly  over  to  Catlin's.  Their  telephone,  whose  use 
they  had  tendered  her  and  Victoria,  was  in  the  front 
hall,  and  she  knew  that  she  could  talk  through  it  with- 
out being  overheard  by  any  of  the  family.  Muffling  the 
bells  with  her  hand,  she  rang  up  Central  and  asked  for 

373 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

the  Reverend  Mr.  Bowman's  house.  She  was  relieved 
when  he  answered  in  person.  She  feared  he  might  not 
have  gone  directly  home,  in  spite  of  the  golden  morning 
hours  slipping  away. 

"If  you  take  my  advice,"  said  she,  speaking  as  low 
as  possible,  "you  will  make  no  allusion  to  what  oc- 
curred at  our  house  this  morning  to  anybody." 

"Thank  you.     I  was  in  doubt.     Mum's  the  word." 

"  Now,  was  that  just  honest?"  she  asked  herself,  as  she 
hung  up  the  receiver.  "And  if  the  Central  girl  hap- 
pened to  be  listening,  as  they  say  she  does,  what  a 
beautiful  shock  she  must  have  got!  The  Reverend  Mr. 
Bowman  and  Miss  Josephine  Priestley — morning  call 
from  the  former — caution  from  the  latter — '  Mum's  the 
word  ' !  What  tidy  material  for  a  scandal !  I  ought  not 
to  have  done  it.  Besides,  he'll  want  me  to  explain 
when  he  sees  me,  and  that  will  give  him  a  chance  to 
open  the  whole  question  again." 

When  she  reached  the  street — there  was  no  back- 
yard gate  in  the  wall — she  could  still  descry,  through 
the  vista  of  elms,  a  figure  which  she  knew  to  be  Alice's. 

"It  wasn't  exactly  honest,"  she  repeated  to  herself. 


XLVII 

VICTORIA,  using  Miss  Hunter  and  Josephine  as 
crutches,  came  down-stairs  after  tea  for  the  first 
time  since  her  sickness.  In  her  loose-flowing,  pale-blue 
gown,  clinging  weblike  to  her  wasted  form,  and  with 
her  carelessly  dressed  hair  drifting  over  her  forehead 
and  temples,  she  was  a  mere  ghost  of  her  former  self. 
Her  hands  were  little,  white  claws,  the  cords  stood  out  on 
her  neck,  and  there  was  an  angularity  about  her  throat 
and  chin  where  before  there  had  been  only  a  tempting 
fulness.  Even  her  eyes,  the  last  organs  to  surrender 
to  disease,  were  hungry,  wistful  pools.  Yet  she  was 
touchingly  beautiful,  swaying  before  every  breath  like 
a  pillar  of  mist,  and  drifting  along  as  noiselessly  as  a 
wraith. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  she  paused,  panting  and 
laughing  half  hysterically. 

"The  dear  old  hall!"  she  gasped. 

In  the  front  room  she  paused  again,  drinking  in  every 
familiar  detail  with  thirsty  eyes,  trembling  with  excite- 
ment, clutching  at  her  supports,  smiling,  whimpering, 
laughing,  crying. 

This  weakness  was  more  trying  to  Josephine  than  even 
the  white,  deathlike  trance  which  had  accompanied  the 
crisis  of  the  fever,  when  they  had  all  stood  in  silence 
around  the  bed,  waiting  for  the  oscillating  hand  on  the 
dial  of  life  and  death  to  stop  and  point  the  sick  one's 
fate.  It  was  the  same  that  morning  when  Victoria  had 
sat  at  an  east  window,  sunning  herself.  As  she  quick- 

375 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

ened  under  the  warmth,  and  held  up  her  bloodless 
hands  to  let  the  sun  shine  through  and  paint  them  a 
waxen  pink,  and  exultantly  flung  out  her  loose  hair 
until  her  head  was  like  a  sea  of  molten  brass  and  gold, 
crowing  like  a  child,  Josephine  had  stealthily  dropped 
a  tear.  She  knew  that  time  would  strengthen  the 
weakened  mind  as  well  as  the  body,  but  it  was  all  so 
pitiful. 

Victoria,  with  a  shawl  over  her  shoulders,  was  placed 
in  a  big  chair  before  the  blazing  library  grate,  which 
the  frugal  Campeau  had  for  once  piled  with  wood.  For 
a  time  she  was  almost  gay  with  her  nurse  and  the 
motherly  Mrs.  Brannigan.  She  even  sent  for  Jean  and 
had  him  tell  her  once  more  the  old  story  of  how  her 
great-grandmother,  with  her  terrified  children  clinging 
to  her  skirts,  had  fearlessly  stepped  to  the  door  of  her 
chateau  to  quell  a  mad,  revolutionary  mob,  and  died. 
But  after  the  nurse  and  Mrs.  Brannigan  had  withdrawn 
her  spirits  seemed  spent,  and  she  fell  into  a  silent  mood. 

"How  much  is  my  sickness  going  to  cost  you,  Jose- 
phine?" she  asked,  abruptly. 

"  What  has  put  that  into  your  head?"  asked  Josephine, 
evasively.  "I'm  too  glad  to  have  you  well  again  to 
think  of  dollars  and  cents." 

"It  has  been  in  my  head  a  good  while.  How  much 
does  Miss  Hunter  charge?" 

"  You  mustn't  talk  about  such  things  now,  dear.  Miss 
Hunter  wouldn't  let  you  sit  up  if  she  knew.  It's  all 
provided  for." 

"I  want  to  know.  Please  don't  make  me  ask  again. 
I'm  tired." 

"Eighteen  dollars  a  week,"  answered  Josephine. 

"And  Mrs.  Brannigan?" 

"Five." 

"Twenty-three  for  the  two.  They've  been  here  six 
weeks — one  hundred  and  thirty-eight  dollars.  Then 

376 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

there  are  the  doctor's  bill,  medicines,  delicacies,  and 
other  extras.  I  should  have  cost  you  less  if  I  had  died 
in  the  beginning." 

The  words  wrung  a  cry  of  pain  from  Josephine. 

"Oh,  sister,  do  you  want  to  break  my  heart?" 

Dropping  her  hoop  of  fancy-work,  she  knelt  by  Vic- 
toria's chair,  with  an  upturned,  pleading  face.  The 
latter  gazed  into  the  fire  with  an  Indian  indifference 
wholly  foreign  to  her  nature,  and  was  silent. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?"  she  asked, 
finally. 

"I  am  going  to  borrow  the  money  from  Morris  Dav- 
enport." 

"There  was  a  time  when  you  wouldn't  borrow  from 
him.  I  have  broken  your  pride  down  pretty  well." 

Josephine  winced.  The  motion  was  not  lost  upon 
Victoria,  but  she  merely  looked  down  a  little  curiously 
out  of  her  great,  hollow  eyes.  The  writhing  of  a  severed 
worm  would  have  moved  her  more,  once.  The  gloom 
of  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death  still  lurked  in  the 
recesses  of  her  mind,  and  the  things  of  earth,  even  a 
sister's  pain,  loomed  not  so  large  as  once. 

"You  will  borrow  it,  but  how  will  you  pay  it  back?" 
she  asked. 

"We  shall  pay  it  back  together,  dear,  when  you  are 
well  and  able  to  work  again.  That  won't  be  long  now." 

"I'm  so  tired;  I  don't  want  to  work  any  more,"  an- 
swered Victoria,  with  a  sigh.  "I  don't  want  to  live 
any  more." 

Again  Josephine  winced.  Could  doctor  and  nurse 
both  be  wrong  when  they  said  that  her  sister  was  on 
the  high  road  to  recovery?  Did  not  people  sometimes 
die  merely  because  they  were  tired  of  living?  The 
thought  frightened  her. 

"  You  must  live  for  me,  dear,  if  not  for  yourself,"  said 
she,  earnestly.  "  I  have  no  one  left  now  but  you.  If 

377 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

you  should  die,  what  would  I  do?  But  you  are  not 
going  to  die.  You  are  going  to  get  well.  You  must 
know  that,  if  you  will  just  stop  to  think.  You  are  weak 
yet,  and  that  is  why  you  are  despondent.  People  who 
have  been  as  sick  as  you  were  always  are.  You  must 
try  to  want  to  live,  if  not  for  your  own  sake,  then  for 
mine.  It  isn't  right  to  give  up.  It's  a  sin.  If  you 
should  die  just  because  you  didn't  care  to  live,  it  would 
be  as  wicked  as  if  you  had  killed  yourself  with  a  pistol. 
You  were  happy  enough  this  morning,  and  you  will  be 
happy  again  to-morrow  morning.  You  were  happy  just 
a  little  while  ago.  You  are  tired  now.  Morris  will  be 
here  to  see  you  in  a  few  minutes.  Miss  Hunter  saw 
him  on  the  street  to-day,  and  told  him  how  strong  and 
well  you  are  getting,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  disappoint 
him.  You  won't,  will  you?  And  you  must  be  bright 
the  minute  he  comes  in,  for  Miss  Hunter  says  you  can't 
stay  with  us  but  a  moment.  She's  afraid  you  will  over- 
tax yourself.  You  will  be  happy,  won't  you?" 

"Y-e-s,"  said  the  other,  slowly,  like  a  spoiled  child. 
A  moment  later  she  added,  "I  dreamed  that  Bertha 
Congreve  and  Mr.  Collie  were  married." 

"You  didn't  dream  it.  Elizabeth  Catlin  told  you. 
Don't  you  remember  when  she  was  over  to  see  you 
yesterday  morning?  I  guess  you  were  sleepy." 

Victoria  nodded;  then  her  face  suddenly  lighted  with 
recollection. 

"She  brought  me  some  soup,"  she  said. 

"Yes — and  you  ate  it  all  up,  every  drop!"  cried  Jose- 
phine, gayly. 

"No — did  I?"  she  asked,  suspiciously. 

"Why,  yes.  Miss  Hunter  was  so  surprised.  She  said 
she  never  saw  such  an  appetite  in  a  sick  girl." 

"  Then  did  some  one  tell  me  that  you  and  Morris  were 
married?" 

"  No,  you  must  have  dreamed  that.  You  didn't  think 
378 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

I'd  get  married  and  go  off  and  leave  you  while  you  were 
sick,  did  you?" 

"Will  you  when  I'm  well?"  asked  the  invalid,  dark- 
ening. 

"Why,  no — not  leave  you,"  answered  Josephine,  and 
she  would  have  blushed  just  the  same  had  she  been  talk- 
ing to  a  child.  "You  shall  always  be  with  me  where- 
ever  I  am,  as  long  as  you  want  to  be." 

"  You  think  that  after  I  get  well  I  sha'n't  want  to  be," 
suggested  Victoria,  half  resentfully. 

"Why,  what  foolishness!"  cried  Josephine,  with  a  ring- 
ing laugh.  Even  Victoria  had  to  join  her  in  it.  Then 
came  another  thoughtful  pause. 

"Have  any  of  my  pupils  come  to  ask  about  me?" 

"Lots  of  them — time  and  again."  Josephine  named 
half  a  dozen  or  more. 

"Didn't  Willie  Richards  come?"  she  asked,  with  visi- 
ble disappointment. 

"I  didn't  see  him.  But  I  was  away  so  much  with 
my  own  pupils  that  I  didn't  see  a  great  many  who  called. 
Miss  Hunter  or  Mrs.  Brannigan  would  know." 

"Please  ask  them." 

Mrs.  Brannigan,  however,  had  gone  home  for  a  little 
while,  and  Miss  Hunter  was  not  sure.  She  had  taken 
the  names  of  all  who  had  called,  but  her  memory  was 
poor.  To  please  the  sick  girl,  though,  she  stepped  to 
the  library  door. 

"If  I  haven't  got  the  names  mixed,  Victoria,"  said 
she,  "he  wore  knee-breeches  and  a  double-breasted 
jacket,  with  a  sailor  collar,  although  he  was  quite  a 
large  boy — almost  too  large,  it  struck  me,  for  that  kind 
of  a  suit.  He  carried  a  watch  with  a  silver  chain  in  an 
outside  pocket.  His  hair  was  light  and  curly,  and  he  had 
the  most  angelic  eyes.  Was  that  he?" 

Victoria  nodded,  and  Miss  Hunter  retired,  with  a 
smile  at  Josephine. 

379 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"He  told  me  one  afternoon  that  he  loved  me,"  said 
Victoria,  with  a  curiously  flushed  face.  "He  said  he 
knew  he  was  too  young  yet  to  marry,  and  that  I  was 
several  years  older  than  he;  but  that  when  he  grew  up 
the  difference  would  not  be  so  great.  He  said  that  his 
own  mother  was  three  years  older  than  his  father.  Then 
he  asked  me,  with  a  quivering  chin,  if  I  could  give  him 
any  hope.  The  dear  little  man!"  she  exclaimed,  with 
misty  eyes.  "  I  wanted  to  snatch  him  to  my  breast  and 
kiss  his  pain  away — for  I  knew  he  was  in  pain.  But  I 
did  not  dare.  So  I  said  that  of  course  I  was  a  little  sur- 
prised, but  was  glad  that  he  had  told  me;  and  that,  as 
the  time  was  a  long  way  off  yet,  we  would  just  let  mat- 
ters stand  and  see  how  we  both  felt  later.  He  said  he 
knew  that  he  would  never  change" — her  voice  broke 
tenderly — "and  asked  if  he  might  kiss  me  to  seal  our 
compact.  But  he  added  that  he  shouldn't  expect  to 
do  it  again  until  I  had  given  him  a  definite  answer.  I 
can  taste  his  sweet,  girlish  lips  yet." 

Josephine  was  busy  with  her  own  thoughts.  She  gave 
a  key  to  them,  though  Victoria  did  not  know  it,  when 
she  said,  "One  would  hardly  expect  such  restraint  and 
fine  sense  of  honor  in  a  little  fellow — as  not  to  want  to 
kiss  you  again  until  he  had  a  perfect  right.  You  will 
probably  never  get  a  proposal  that  will  give  you  a 
purer  joy  than  that  one,  dear." 

"I  don't  expect  to.  I  have  been  better  for  it  ever 
since.  And  it  would  have  hurt  me,"  she  added,  with  a 
little  catch  in  her  laugh,  "if  he  hadn't  called  to  ask 
after  me." 

"I  can  find  out  from  Mrs.  Brannigan  how  often  he 
came." 

"No,  I  wish  you  wouldn't,"  said  Victoria,  quickly, 
and  she  was  actually  blushing.  "  I — I  would  rather  take 
him  on  trust." 


XLVIII 

WHEN  a  man  buys  flowers  he  is  likely  to  be  governed 
by  the  florist's  unit  of  a  dozen.  Davenport,  with 
characteristic  prodigality,  brought  Victoria  half  an  arm- 
ful of  carnations,  which  he  had  bought  in  the  city,  and 
tumbled  them  into  her  lap  as  though  they  were  dan- 
delions. She  fairly  trembled  with  joy  over  the  cool, 
fragrant  heap,  while  Josephine  herself,  with  a  little 
cry,  dropped  to  her  knees  and  buried  her  face  in  the 
flowers.  Then  the  watchful  Miss  Hunter  came  to  take 
Victoria  to  bed,  and  Josephine  excused  herself  for  a 
moment  to  assist  them  up  the  stairs. 

"Shall  we  stay  in  here?"  she  asked,  returning. 

"  By  all  means.  It  is  so  cosey,  and  somehow  I  feel 
particularly  inclined  to  a  cosey  place  to-night." 

Josephine  dropped  her  eyes  and  stepped  rather  hastily 
to  the  lamp,  which  had  not  yet  been  lighted.  This 
was  the  first  time  she  had  seen  Davenport  since  Bertha's 
marriage,  and  her  fingers  fumbled  the  matches. 

"Why  won't  the  fire  do?"  asked  Morris.  "  It  furnishes 
light  enough  for  me,  and  of  a  superior  quality,  to  my 
notion.  If  it  did  for  you  and  Victoria,  it  ought  to  do 
for  you  and  me." 

The  big  grate,  relic  of  a  day  when  firewood  was  cheap, 
was  flooding  the  carpet  and  rug  with  a  red  glow,  and 
making  the  chairs  and  Davenport's  head  and  shoulders 
dance  in  great,  blurred  shadows  on  the  opposite  wall 
and  ceiling.  The  bookcases  advanced  or  receded  at  the 
whim  of  the  fire  -  sprites,  and  the  grave  plaster  busts 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

on  top  of  them  cut  the  most  astounding  capers.  Oc- 
casionally, a  little  rocket  arose  with  a  snap  from  the  hot 
wood,  and  burst  in  mid-air  into  a  cluster  of  meteors, 
which  consumed  themselves  before  reaching  the  hearth. 

"I  don't  suppose  it  would  make  any  difference,"  said 
Josephine,  hesitating. 

"None  in  the  world-" 

"  I  don't  suppose  it  would  have  any  weight  with  you 
if  it  did,"  she  added. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  he,  mockingly.  "Anything  remotely 
suggestive  of  impropriety  would  have  my  instant  con- 
demnation." 

"You  are  feeling  good  to-night,"  said  she,  yielding  in 
the  matter  of  the  lamp,  and  sitting  down. 

"Yes,  I  am,  and  I'll  share  my  good  news  with  you. 
First,  the  supreme  court  of  this  State  has  just  decided 
a  case  in  favor  of  my  client.  Secondly,  I  got  a  letter  to- 
day from  the  new  railroad  which  runs  through  Harvey, 
six  miles  west  of  here,  retaining  me  as  their  local  coun- 
sel, and  enclosing  an  annual  pass  over  their  line.  That 
makes  four  that  I  carry  now.  Third,  I  have  rented  that 
house  of  mine  next  to  the  Baptist  parsonage ;  and,  fourth, 
I  beat  Marmaduke  Elaine  by  two  rods  in  a  little  brush 
we  had  on  the  road  this  afternoon.  To  understand 
thoroughly  the  value  of  the  last,  you  must  know  that 
Marmaduke  takes  more  pride  in  his  horses  than  he  does 
in  his  family." 

"I  don't  doubt  it.  Most  horse-fanciers  do,  I  think," 
said  she.  He  smiled — a  playful,  tender  smile — and  she 
added,  wistfully,  "Success  is  so  easy  for  you,  Morris." 

Her  words  pleased  him — how  could  they  help  it? — 
but  he  answered,  frankly,  "  No,  it  is  not  always  easy.  I 
don't  tell  many  people,  but  I  sometimes  think  that  I  go 
through  more  drudgery  to  accomplish  what  I  do  than 
any  other  man  living.  And  the  drudgery  doesn't  al- 
ways win,  either.  But  I  don't  talk  about  my  defeats.. 

383 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

It  isn't  good  business,  as  Mr.  Collie  would  say.  I  smile 
and  talk  about  my  successes." 

She  flushed  slightly  at  Collie's  name,  but  asked,  cool- 
ly, "Is  that  just  honest?" 

"Oughtn't  we  always  be  cheerful?" 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  know  whether  we  ought  to  smile 
outside  when  we  are  not  smiling  inside.  It  seems  a 
little  hypocritical.  And  one  can't  smile  inside  after  suf- 
fering defeat.  At  least,  /  can't." 

"But  oughtn't  we  be  cheerful  outside  for  the  sake  of 
example?" 

"Sometimes  a  cheerful  face  positively  grates  on  my 
nerves,  and  makes  me  sadder  than  before.  Then,  again, 
I've  seen  sad  faces  that  did  me  a  world  of  good — that 
made  me  feel  as  though  I  had  met  a  fellow-being  of  flesh 
and  blood  like  myself,  who  could  sympathize  with  me, 
and  not  one  of  flint  or  steel." 

"Did  I  ever  strike  you  as  being  of  flint  or  steel?"  he 
asked. 

Again  the  color  mounted  her  cheeks. 

"You  have  struck  me  as  being  a  good  many  things 
that  you  ought  not  to  be.  But  don't  you  ever  feel  dis- 
couraged when  you  have  suffered  defeat  ?  Did  you  ever 
sit  down,  with  your  heart  in  your  throat,  and  wonder 
if  life  is  worth  living?" 

"Yes,  on  at  least  three  occasions  that  I  can  call  to 
mind." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  smile  that  shaded  off  into 
tenderness. 

"I  supposed  that  you  were  miles  above  such  a  weak- 
ness. But  I  am  glad  you  are  not.  Somehow,  I  feel 
nearer  you  now.  It  seems  to  me  that  a  man  who  never 
feels  discouraged  must  lack  sensibility." 

"Then  you  thought  that  /  lacked  sensibility?" 

"No,  not  that,"  she  protested. 

"My  room-mate  at  college  was  a  powerful  fellow, 
383 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

physically  and  intellectually,"  said  Davenport.  "I  al- 
ways think  of  him  when  courage  is  mentioned.  Once 
a  negro  set  the  town  and  university  in  a  fury  by  one  of 
the  unspeakable  crimes  of  his  race.  Hawkins  joined  the 
posse,  and  tracked  the  wretch  to  a  cave.  The  officers 
balked,  and  Hawkins,  with  a  knife  in  his  teeth,  crawled 
into  that  death-trap  on  his  hands  and  knees,  knowing 
that  that  desperate  black  fiend  crouched  at  the  other 
end  like  a  beast  in  its  lair.  Charlie  brought  him  out, 
too,  after  half  killing  him.  Not  only  that,  he  landed 
him  safely  in  jail,  which  required  moral  as  well  as  phys- 
ical courage,  for  the  posse  was  determined  to  lynch  the 
brute  then  and  there.  Yet  Hawkins  was  subject  to  fits 
of  the  profoundest  despondency,  and  I've  seen  him 
throw  himself  on  the  bed  and  lie  there  for  hours,  too 
dejected  to  speak  or  even  answer  a  question." 

"What  would  you  do  for  him?"  she  asked,  pityingly. 

"Sit  and  smoke." 

"Oh,  you  are  flint." 

"There  was  nothing  else  to  do.  Two  girls  would  have 
handled  it  differently,  I  know,  but  we  couldn't.  Finally 
he  would  get  up  and  tackle  his  books  again,  and  that 
was  the  last  of  it." 

"What  was  his  trouble?" 

"  Nothing  except  the  vast  future.  It  was  vaster  then 
to  both  of  us  than  it  is  now." 

"You  are  so  old!"  said  she,  with  tender  irony.  "Is 
he  taking  care  of  it  properly  now — the  future?" 

"  He's  making  money,  if  that  is  what  you  mean.  He's 
a  mining  lawyer  in  Colorado,  with  an  income  of  ten  thou- 
sand a  year,  and  unparalleled  chances  to  invest  it." 

"Is  he  married?" 

"No.  Women  are  scarce  out  that  way,  he  writes," 
he  added,  laughing. 

She  did  not  smile,  but  gazed  musingly  into  the  fire. 
Silence  fell.  It  was  not  because  there  was  nothing  to 

384 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

say;  rather  because  there  was  too  much.  Both  re- 
alized that  the  evening  was  to  be  momentous  for 
them.  Bertha's  marriage  had  radically  changed  their 
relations  to  each  other,  and  now  was  the  time,  if  ever, 
for  a  readjustment.  A  readjustment  could  mean  but 
one  thing  to  Davenport,  and  he  supposed  it  could  mean 
but  one  to  her.  Yet  he  was  not  sure. 

The  firelight  in  front  and  the  shadows  behind  gave 
her  beauty  a  strange  and  fascinating  setting.  As  she 
leaned  forward  with  her  chin  in  her  hand,  her  full  throat 
and  square  brow  were  revealed  to  him  as  he  had  never 
seen  them  before.  Her  lips,  also,  were  pursed  a  little, 
which  gave  them  a  firmer  but  at  the  same  time  a  more 
lovable,  kissable  look. 

She  started  finally,  as  if  remembering  that  she  was  not 
alone,  and  glanced  at  her  companion  with  a  faint  flush, 
visible  even  in  the  red  glow. 

"A  penny  for  your  thoughts,"  said  he. 

"Not  for  a  million,"  she  answered,  quickly,  as  if 
snatching  them  out  of  his  reach,  and  laughed. 

"I  can  guess." 

"You  needn't  try." 

"Just  once." 

"  If  you  do,  I  shall  look  straight  into  the  fire  and  not 
turn  my  head  or  say  yes  or  no." 

"  Then  it  wouldn't  be  any  fun.  Shall  I  tell  you,  then, 
what  I  was  thinking  of?" 

She  looked  doubtful.  She  fancied  she  already  knew. 
He  saw  her  hand  tighten  around  the  arm  of  the  chair. 
It  might  have  been  around  his  heart,  from  the  feeling 
there. 

"I  was  thinking  of  you,"  said  he,  simply. 

She  flashed  him  a  little,  ambiguous  glance,  half  com- 
ical, half  shy,  and  said  nothing. 

"I  was  thinking  of  both  you  and  Bertha  Congreve. 
You  have  heard  of  her  marriage,  of  course." 
*s  385 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

She  nodded. 

"Perhaps  you  have  also  heard  that  I  was  one  of  the 
witnesses." 

She  nodded  again. 

He  briefly  sketched  the  events  of  that  night. 

"I  did  not  try  to  stop  them.  I  could  not,  and  I 
should  not  if  I  could.  I  saw  Harvey  the  next  day. 
He  was  considerably  cut  up,  but  attached  no  blame  to 
me.  What  hurt  him  most  was  that  Bertha  should  do 
the  thing  clandestinely,  as  if  he  were  a  tyrant  who  could 
not  be  reasoned  with.  Volley  did  blame  me,  and  follow- 
ed me  to  the  door  to  tell  me,  out  of  Harvey's  hearing, 
that  she  thought  I  had  personal  reasons  for  getting  Ber- 
tha married  off." 

He  paused,  and  Josephine  looked  up  with  gleaming 
eyes,  waiting. 

"  I  told  her  that  she  was  not  wholly  wrong,"  he  added. 

"Oh,  Morris!"  she  exclaimed,  doubtfully. 

"  I  explained  that  it  was  her  own  daughter,  not  I,  who 
had  made  the  marriage  desirable  to  me.  Was  I  right? 
Had  I  reason  to  be  glad  of  Bertha's  marriage?" 

She  did  not  answer,  perhaps  because  he  had  not  made 
it  easy  enough  for  her  yet.  The  question  was  too  in- 
direct, drew  too  heavily  upon  her  modesty,  and  took 
for  granted  that  which  maidens  love  to  close  their 
eyes  to  and  affect  not  to  see. 

He  drew  his  chair  closer  to  hers.  When  he  leaned 
upon  the  arm  of  it,  she  feigned  ignorance  of  the  fact. 
When  he  took  her  hand,  she  let  him  keep  it. 

"  Is  it  all  right?"  he  asked,  softly.  Her  head  drooped 
and  he  could  look  down  into  the  black  coils  of  her  hair. 

She  nodded,  ever  so  little,  but  it  was  a  nod. 

"You  have  thought  it  all  out,  and  decided  that  it  is 
right?" 

Again  the  almost  invisible  nod.  He  smiled  tenderly, 
and  smoothed  her  hair  for  a  moment.  Perhaps  he 

386 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

gently  inclined  her,  perhaps  she  unconsciously  leaned. 
Anyhow,  her  head  came  slowly  nearer,  until  at  last, 
with  a  little,  convulsive  movement,  it  lay  on  his  breast. 

It  was  all  very  simple,  very  natural,  and  yet  very 
momentous.  When  he  bent  his  own  head  lower,  and 
tilted  hers  a  little  nearer,  and  kissed  her,  she  shut  her 
eyes  in  that  maidenly  shame  which  is  joy.  When  he 
dared  her  to  open  her  eyes,  she  shook  her  head  and 
showed  him  her  pearly  teeth  instead,  in  a  smile,  and  he 
kissed  them.  When  at  last  she  did  open  her  eyes,  they 
shone  upon  him  with  the  pure  light  of  twin  stars,  and 
a  mist  suddenly  came  into  his  own. 

At  that  moment  he  supposed  he  loved  her  as  much  as 
it  was  possible  for  one  human  being  to  love  another. 
Yet  the  time  came  when  he  realized  that  what  he  felt  in 
that  exquisite  moment  was  but  the  bursting  of  love  from 
its  seed.  The  tiny,  tender,  pale-green  sprout  had  yet  to 
become  the  lusty  stalk,  with  roots,  leaves,  and  branches; 
and,  like  a  century-plant,  the  splendid  bloom  which  was 
to  crown  it  was  to  be  years  in  the  making. 

"Do  you  think  they  are  going  to  be  happy,  Morris?" 
she  asked,  finally.  He  knew  that  they  meant  the  Col- 
lies. 

"According  to  all  the  formulas  for  marital  happiness 
that  ever  I  heard  of,  they  won't.  Yet  I  have  an  idea 
that  they  will  fool  us  all.  What  Collie  goes  after  he 
usually  gets;  and  if  he  once  grasps  the  idea  that  hap- 
piness is  essential  to  a  strictly  first-class,  up-to-date 
marriage — " 

"Oh,  sweetheart!"  she  exclaimed,  with  such  sweet  re- 
proach that  he  was  impelled  to  kiss  her  again.  "Just 
as  if  any  man  would  have  to  grasp  that  idea!  Is  that 
the  way  the  men  do  when  they  get  married  —  make 
themselves  happy,  just  as  they  would  make  themselves 
warm?" 

"Doesn't  a  woman,  too?" 

387 


The    Pride    of    Tel  Hair 

"Never!  She  just  accepts  happiness,  if  it  comes.  If 
it  doesn't,  she  accepts  the  other  thing.  Are  you  going 
to  try  to  make  yourself  happy  when  we — when  you — 
when  it  comes  your  turn?" 

"  No,  I  sha'n't  dabble  with  the  vintage  that  goes  into 
our  cup.  Generally  speaking,  I  think  a  man  ought  to, 
instead  of  stupidly  drinking  whatever  is  held  to  his  lips." 
She  knew  he  was  in  play.  "But  in  our  case  I  don't 
think  it's  necessary." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  are  going  to  leave  it  all  to 
me?" 

"No,  I  think  we  can  both  safely  leave  it  to  higher 
hands  than  ours." 

She  snuggled  a  little  closer,  and  he  knew  she  was  glad 
of  his  saying  that.  He  felt  her  fingers  tiptoeing  around 
his  upper  vest-pocket,  close  to  his  heart,  and  they  burn- 
ed like  electrodes.  They  paused  on  his  pencils,  and  he 
thought  she  might  take  them  out,  in  play.  But  he  was 
yet  too  new  to  her;  it  was  too  personal  an  act,  and  her 
courage  evidently  failed  her.  Some  time,  he  reflected, 
it  would  not  fail  her,  and  he  began  to  realize  from  that 
moment  that  a  woman's  perfect  love  is  not  a  golden 
apple  to  be  plucked  and  thrust  into  one's  pocket,  but 
rather  a  mountain  pinnacle  to  be  gained  only  by  slow, 
laborious,  yet  surpassingly  sweet,  climbing. 

"There  is  one  thing  I  must  tell  you,"  said  she,  ner- 
vously picking  at  one  of  his  buttons.  "Jean  has  al- 
ways lived  with  us.  He  used  to  carry  me  out  for  the  air 
before  I  was  six  months  old.  He  has  always  been  like 
one  of  the  family,  He  couldn't  possibly  make  his  own 
living  now,  and  I — I  should  like  you  to  take  him  along 
with  my  other  encumbrances." 

He  smiled  tenderly. 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  let  Campeau  go,  under  any  circum- 
stances. I  list  him  among  your  assets,  not  your  en- 
cumbrances. He's  the  only  specimen  in  Tellfair — or  in 

388 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

the  State,  so  far  as  I  know — of  a  genuine  imported  old 
French  family  retainer." 

"Only,  the  dear  old  fellow  is  rather  worn,"  said  she, 
laughing  happily.  "But  he  has  been  father,  mother, 
and  all  to  Victoria  and  me,  since  the  others  went.  I 
don't  know  but  you  ought  to  ask  him  for  my  hand, 
Morris,"  she  added,  with  tender  mischief.  "He's  the 
only  one  now  to  give  me  away.  And  maybe  he  wouldn't 
let  you  have  me.  He's  afraid  of  lawyers." 

"If  he  wouldn't,  I  should  come  like  the  wicked  genie 
in  the  Arabian  Nights,  and  steal  the  beautiful  princess 
away.  Then  I  should  carry  her  to  my  castle.  In  what 
part  of  town  should  you  like  that  castle  to  be?" 

"Oh,  as  your  captive  I  shouldn't  have  any  choice." 

"Then  I  should  use  this  very  house." 

She  colored  with  pleasure. 

"I  feared  you  might  think  it  too  old-fashioned,  and 
would  want  to  rent  it  out.  I  couldn't  let  you  sell  it." 

"Let  me  sell  it!"  he  said. 

"Why,  yes.     It  will  be  yours,  won't  it — then?" 

"No." 

"Doesn't  the  law  give  it  to  you  when  I — when  you — 
when  we  marry?" 

"Not  that  I  have  heard  of." 

"  I  supposed  it  did.     I  want  it  to." 

"That's  another  matter.     You  can  give  it  to  me." 

"Then  I  do." 

"Very  well,  I  accept  it.  We'll  make  some  changes, 
if  you  say  so.  We'll  put  a  furnace  in  the  basement,  a 
new  fountain  in  the  yard,  and  horses  in  the  stable."  He 
paused,  with  his  eyes  upon  her  ringless  fingers.  "  I  once 
did  you  a  great  injustice,  my  dear.  You  remember — 
when  I  insinuated  that  you  had  got  your  interest  money 
from  Mr.  Chouinard?  I  regretted  it  deeply  at  the  time, 
but  it  was  not  until  later  that  I  learned  how  cruel  I  had 
unwittingly  been." 

389 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  uneasily. 

"When  I  found  where  these  had  gone,"  he  answered, 
laying  his  hand  upon  her  fingers  with  the  air  of  blessing 
them. 

She  shrank  a  little  from  his  touch,  and  he  could  see  the 
hot  blood  rising  in  her  face. 

"I  hoped  you  would  never  know  that,"  said  she,  al- 
most inaudibly.  "I  hoped  no  one  would  ever  know  it. 
How  did  you  find  it  out?" 

He  told  her.  She  listened  with  a  changeless  face  until 
he  mentioned  Volley  Congreve's  name ;  then  she  caught 
her  breath  and  clapped  her  hands  to  her  face. 

"Then  everybody  knows  it!"  she  cried. 

"  No,"  said  he,  confidently.  "  Nobody  but  Volley  and 
me.  I  think  I  can  promise  you  that  no  one  else  will 
ever  know  it.  I  put  a  knot  in  Volley's  tongue,  on  that 
subject,  that  she  won't  untie.  But  I  have  uncovered 
this  painful  subject,  my  dear,  to  tell  you  that  we  are 
going  to  have  that  jewelry  all  back — every  piece  of  it — 
and  I  have  told  you  now  because  the  sooner  we  get 
it  the  better.  I  am  going  into  Chicago  again  to-morrow 
or  the  next  day,  and  I  think  you  had  better  let  me  take 
that  pawn-ticket  along." 

Her  eyes  glowed  for  a  moment  over  the  thought  of 
getting  the  precious  keepsakes  back.  Then  her  face 
fell. 

"I  can't,  Morris,"  said  she,  in  distress.  "Not  now. 
Not  till  we  are  married." 

"But  I  am  merely  going  to  lend  you  the  money,  all 
in  due  form,  properly  secured — I  take  no  chances  with 
my  gold — and  will  redeem  the  jewels  merely  as  your 
agent,  for  which  I  shall  charge  you  the  regular  fee." 

What  could  a  girl  do  with  such  a  man? 

"Oh,  dear,  you  are  a  wizard — a  naughty  wizard!"  she 
exclaimed,  with  a  little  whimper  of  pleasure.  "Victoria 
will  be  so  happy." 

390 


The    Pride    of    Tellfair 

"Anybody  else?" 

"Yes,  Jean." 

"Anybody  else?" 

"You!" 

"  Very  well.  Then  Victoria,  Jean,  and  I  will  celebrate 
the  occasion,  all  by  ourselves." 

"And  //"  she  cried,  conquered,  and  glad  to  be. 

He  arose  to  go.  She  was  standing  between  him  and 
the  fire — a  little  flushed,  a  little  tousled. 

"I'm  sorry  I  didn't  light  the  lamp — now,"  said  she. 
Such  sweet  roguery  played  in  her  eyes  that  he  returned 
and  once  more  pressed  her  to  his  bosom. 

"You  mustn't,"  said  she.  "You  must  go  home. 
Don't  you  remember  how  you  used  to  make  fun  of  Miss 
Catlin's  sweetheart  for  tarrying  so  long  on  her  porch, 
in  the  shade  of  the  vines?  And  you  ought  to  do  better 
than  he,  for  he  is  two  or  three  years  younger  than  you." 

"  No  fool  like  an  old  fool." 

"You  aren't  old;  you  are  just  older." 

"How  can  a  man  be  older  without  being  old?  Old, 
older,  oldest." 

"Now,  dear,  you  are  foolish." 


THE    END 


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